“Everybody, please welcome Tate!” the lead singer announces.
The sound in the arena is deafening. But everything muffles as I stare at Tate. She walks to the piano set up on the stage and takes a seat. A silence falls over the crowd like magic as she leans toward the microphone.
“I don’t play this song much. But when I do, it still hits as much as the first time.” She clears her throat and smiles. “This is… Blue Eyes.”
I’m in a tunnel, unable to see or feel anything around me except for Jude. Her warm body inside my arms. Her eyes on myface. And then there are Tate’s words, flowing around me like light filtering through water.
“It’s about…” I choke, my voice thick.
“I know,” Jude whispers. “Keep listening.”
I do. I listen to every syllable, letting them sink into my skin until they become a part of me. Where the other songs were sad, about heartbreak and loss and memories. This one’s about hope and love and happiness.
“Fuck… Jude…” I choke out, unable to form the words I need in order to tell her what this means to me. Whatshemeans to me.
“They love you so much. Can you hear it? Can youfeelit? They never abandoned you. They thought about you every day. They’ve suffered too. Tate’s songs helped heal Sullivan. He told me as such when we arranged tonight for you.”
Jude’s gazing at me with nothing but love and understanding in her eyes.
“The song’s about Molly,” I say.
“Sure is.” She tightens her arms around me. “You said New York City hates you. Do you see now how that isn’t true? It was here. Missing you all along. Waiting for you to come home.”
The final page in Molly’s storybook flashes in my mind, and I blink rapidly, fighting back a surge of emotion.
“Iamhome, Jude. I was home the moment you kissed me.”
She bites her lip, understanding in her eyes as she sees I’m barely holding it together.
“Pretty sure you kissed me first, Cowboy.”
I smile, cupping her face and lowering my forehead to hers.
“I love you. Thank you for this.”
“I love you too. And you’re welcome.”
I cover her smile with a kiss, and I don’t stop kissing her until Tate’s song ends and the cheers erupt around us.
45
JUDE
“It’s going to be epic,”I say as we slow our pace, passing the giant gold doors, and coming to a stop in front of the store.
It’s late, and the windows are all lit up, glowing like glistening treasure troves in the night. We do this a lot, Slade and I—walk the city in the evenings, soaking it all in. It helps him to see it, to know that it’s all still here, and it’s not going anywhere.
“You like it?” Slade asks, kissing the top of my head as I gaze at the poster of Sinclair in the window of Beaufort Diamonds. She’s standing on the shore, waves lapping around her feet, sun shining down on her slicked-back hair. Strings of pearls intermingle with shells, hanging from her neck and arms as she leans back against the giant piece of driftwood.
“I love it.” I scan over the font they’ve used to advertise the upcoming collection and my chest bubbles with emotion.
The Truth Collection.
It’s what Slade’s been working on with Sullivan these past few weeks. What they’ve all been working on. A family affair. Sterling’s been at Beaufort Diamonds more, leaving his piano lounges to his managers, and Sinclair’s been styling the shoots. These were taken in The Bahamas. The next set—featuring thecollection pieces once they’re ready—will be taken in South Africa. When Slade told me that, I wasn’t sure. He said doing it there, as a family, would be good for him. For all of them.
And I trust him.
“You’ve worked so hard,” I say, placing my hand on his chest.
