Page 14 of Love Felt Like This

I wasn’t looking at my shoelaces, but I’d hate to ruin the magic of puppetry for Ava. Even in person, Bernie Bird acted so lifelike that I almost forgot about the puppeteer at my feet.

Almost.

I get flashes of that woman sometimes. The pretty smile, those green eyes, squinting at the edges with little marks of playfulness. She looked plucked straight out of the ’70s, with her feathery blond bangs and floral coveralls. She was living sunshine, breathing that light into the fabric draped over her arm. Laughing at my misfortune.

Ava squeals with giggles again.

“Daddy funny,” she murmurs.

A smile crawls up my cheeks.

“Daddy’s funny?” I repeat back to her. She nods, her brown bangs bouncing in front of her eyes. Her mom’s bangs used to do that when she laughed, too, and Robin sure loved to laugh.

What is it with women finding only humor in my scowls?

I palm the wispy hair away from Ava’s forehead and kiss the space underneath, somewhere Robin refused to let me see because she said her forehead was more like a fivehead, and I wasn’t allowing her bangs to do their one job of hiding it. Robin’s forehead was her only insecurity, and I’m determined for Ava to have none.

A key rattles in the lock on the front door before swinging open. Jimmy strides in, mid-cackle with a phone pressed to his ear. Strolling in behind him are my three bandmates, grinning at the video playing for Ava.

“Watching yourself? How egotistical,” Poe says cheekily.

“You’re one to talk,” I grunt back.

Poe is my lead guitarist, never caught without his signature fishhook earrings, pants that are tight enough to fist grip his balls, and one eye always on his own social media. The lovable Brit.

“I’m only watching because Ava wants to,” I say.

“Sure, you are,” Royce says, following Poe through the doorway. Royce is my bassist, and his voice carries the same low monotone notes leaving his guitar—a perfect fit for his sarcasm.

Dom, my drummer, only grunts in agreement. Dom is the opposite of his instrument. Silent. Only talks when necessary. He’s my oldest pal, and ever since I met him in Nashville, he’s let music express emotions for him. We have that in common.

Dom shuts the door, and the snap echoes off the white walls. I never got around to decorating. I could hire an interior designer, but I don’t want strangers in my home with Ava around. So now it’s mostly unhung frames leaning against my kitchen counter and the occasional colorful smear I’ve tried too many times to erase from the walls.

Washable markers, my ass.

Poe crouches in front of Ava, tickling her socked feet. “How’s my favorite girl?”

Behind us, Jimmy says into the phone stuck to his ear, “Right. Right, yeah, I think so.” He’s pacing in the kitchen, running a palm through his slicked-back hair. He’s stressed about 90 percent of the time. The gel is a lost cause.

Royce flops onto the couch and leans his neck over the headrest.

“Long day?” I ask.

He rolls his head over with a sigh. “Haven’t you gotten Jimmy’s emails?”

“Been a bit busy. Bad?”

Dom’s pointed stare says everything Royce doesn’t.

Poe fills in the gaps as usual. “The record label threatened to give our studio time to Beau.”

I scoff. “That asshole? Why?”

Poe waves his palms in the air, clacking his many rings together. “That’s what I’m saying!”

“He’s performing at the Grammys next month,” Royce says.

I shrug. “Okay. So am I. Why’s that matter?”