AllFreeNovel
Share Us
When he figured it out, I hoped he’d clue me in too.
“Still hilarious, Dad. Anyway, where’s Mom?”
Releasing my hand from his, Marty led me into the living room and said, “She’s in the kitchen, making our lunch for the road tomorrow.”
In the distraction that was our time at Reade’s, I had nearly forgotten that Dylan was leaving. My chest squeezed with the prelude of longing, as I was already anticipating how much I’d miss him, and I swallowed before the emotions could get the better of me.
Shame on me.
Dylan escorted me through a cozy living room with oversize furniture and a huge TV on the wall. I laughed on our way through, commenting that it was one TV I’d actually be able to see clearly, and Marty didn’t make a curious or snide remark. He simply chuckled good-naturedly without making me feel on the spot, and my chest warmed with an unfamiliar longing. One that said I liked this place, these people—and I hadn’t even met his mother yet.
When we entered the dining room adjacent to the kitchen, I was greeted by the familiar scent of chicken salad and saw a woman no taller than me, wearing a fluffy leopard-print robe. She was listening to Michael Bublé and humming along when Dylan came up behind her.
Before he could surprise her, she said, “I know you’re here, Dilly, so don’t even think about it.”
Dilly?I snorted at the nickname, and the woman started at the sound, whirling around on her heel.
“Oh my word,” she gasped, clutching a slice of white bread to her chest. Quickly, she recovered and smacked her son on the arm. “Why didn’t you tell me you were bringing someone home? I would’ve gotten dressed, for crying out loud.”
“For what it’s worth, I really love your robe,” I commented.
Frazzled, she touched the lapel of the furry garment and said, “Oh, thank you, honey. It’s … it’s just this old thing my sister, Janet, gave me for Christmas a few years ago. I think she bought it from Kohl’s or maybe Marshalls—”
“Mom,” Dylan interrupted, placing both hands on her shoulders. “This is Lennon. Lennon, this is my mom, Angela.”
Mrs. Pierce was startled, dodging her gaze quickly toward me. “So,youmust be the girl in the front row,” she said with instant recognition and fondness that made my stomach flop. “You’re pretty famous around here.”
Above her head, I watched Dylan widen his eyes a little, taken aback and shocked.
“I don’t know aboutfamous,” I said, laughing nervously.
“Oh, I’d say you are,” she said, jabbing her elbow into her son’s stomach.
“Thank you so much for that, Mom,” Dylan muttered, patting her on the shoulder before walking toward the fridge. “Want anything to drink?”
“I made an apple crumble,” Angela added, smiling sweetly.
I returned the smile, then said with regret, “I’d love to, but I really can’t stay for too long.”
“Oh!” She set to work, bustling toward a cabinet and leaving the sandwiches unfinished on the counter. “I’ll just pack some up for you, sweetie. That’s no problem.”
Honey. Sweetie. Peter’s mom didn’t call mehoneyorsweetieor anything like that. She didn’t call me anything but Lennon, and she didn’t do so adoringly. The woman treated me like nothing more than a blip in the timeline of her son’s love life and not like someone who might stick around. It hurt, and from that hurt, I avoided seeing his family as much as I could.
Dylan grabbed a couple of bottles of water from the fridge and asked, “So, you wanna check out my studio?”
All thoughts of Peter and his family vanished like a fart in the wind at the mention of his studio. Because as much as I considered Dylan a friend, I was a fan first, and to see where Dylan freakin’ Pierce created his magic was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. So, I eagerly nodded, practically bouncing on the spot, and he grinned with the order to follow him.
Off the dining room, there was a hallway, where he pointed out the bathroom and a dozen pictures of him as a baby, child, then teenager. None of the pictures were of him as a rock star—every one of them from before.
Then, at the end of the hall, we came to two doors.
“Right here is my bedroom,” he pointed out, pushing one door open to unveil a clean, made bed. Then, with a gentle shove, the adjacent door swung open to reveal a room covered in soundproofing and guitars. “And this is my little studio.”
He wasn’t kidding when he said it was little. The room was only slightly bigger than my parents’ bathroom, but he seemed content with it as he closed the door, wandered in, and took a seat in a battered plaid armchair.
“My parents used to sleep down here, and my old bedroom was upstairs,” he explained, picking up an acoustic from its stand beside the chair. “But after I lost my leg and moved back home, they took all their stuff upstairs.”
“That was nice of them,” I said, stepping over a patchwork quilt of area rugs scattered along the floor, reminding me instantly of Reade’s.
