Page 81

I stare at my reflection.

Two years.

Seven hundred and thirty days.

Could I wait that long?

No. I shake away the thought, my ratty hair falling from its bun. Of course, I’d wait.

My eyes are bloodshot, cheeks ruddy. I open the cabinet, searching for my face wash, when a foil packet catches my attention.

We have no choice but to wait, and until then, I don’t want to risk anything. I don’t want our baby to only see their dad once a month. I couldn’t take an infant on tour, and he’d miss so many milestones. I’d spent eighteen years living with parents who regularly forgot about my existence. History would not repeat itself.

Before I know it, I’ve popped a pill from behind the letter W and wash it down with a glass of water.

Bedsheets rustle through the open door, and I shove the packet behind a row of hair products. Tate moseys into the bathroom, hair sticking up at all angles, eyes heavy with sleep. All we’ve done is argue the past couple of weeks, going to bed angry and in silence.

“Mornin’, Tally Girl.” He looks sorry. But it’s too late for sorry. The i’s are dotted and the t’s are crossed.

“Hey.” I fiddle with the hem of my pajama top. “Did you take your medication?”

He blinks. Maybe he was expecting another fight. His face softens. “What would I do without you? Pass me that, would you?”

He points at the water glass still in my hand. The one I just used to swallow down my birth control pill. I hand it to him silently.

“Are you okay?” He frowns.

“Tired is all. I should get ready for work.” I move to walk past him, but he blocks the doorway. Aquamarine eyes roam over my face.

“Are we okay?” There’s an edge to his voice, teetering on the verge of panic. Our toes are hanging over the side of a cliff, the vicious waters crashing below. We haven’t fallen yet, and I can only hope the storm will pass us by and not hit land.

We have to be okay. The alternative is too absurd. We are Tate and Talia. Talia and Tate. We are timeless.

“I’m still coming to terms with it all. Hopefully, when I meet Howard next week, he can answer some of my questions.” We were attending Tate’s very first premiere, where I would be his infamous manager.

He nods. “Yeah. Okay.” His worry disappears, and he smacks a kiss to my cheek. “I’ll make you breakfast for the road.”

I didn’t lie.

But you also didn’t answer his question.

YESTERDAY

In the morning when I wake

I look back on our yesterday

Every day with you gets better

Even through the stormy weather

Our yesterdays are my favorite

But, heck, I can’t wait for tomorrow

THIRTY-TWO

TATE