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“Yeah,” I sigh, taking a seat on the bench.
He sits down beside me. I have no clue where Rush and Fox are, but I pray to God they don’t stumble upon us to give their two cents.
Friends or not I’m not sure I could take it.
“The way I see it,” Cannon begins, and I try not to roll my eyes at the tone of his voice, “Hayes is going to be mad no matter when he finds out. If Mia doesn’t want to tell him yet, you have to respect that. He’s her dad.”
“He’s our boss,” I remind him. “He could—” There’s fear in my voice, a shakiness, because my choices could ruin everything for my bandmates.
He holds up a tattooed-covered hand to shut me up. “I know what he could do. He can throw us out on our asses, refuse to work with us, I know the risks of your relationship with her. We all do. And believe me, I would’ve beaten you senseless if I hadn’t witnessed the way you look at her. She’s not another hook up to you. You love her.” He shrugs, placing his hands on his knees. “We’ll deal with whatever comes when it happens. But all I can say is, if he refuses to work with us because you’re in love with his daughter then Hayes isn’t the man I think he is.”
I press my lips together and hold my fist out for a fist bump. He returns the gesture, cracking a small smile.
“It’ll all work out, dude,” he tells me. “Don’t stress.”
I want to believe him, I really fucking do.
* * *
In a blurit’s suddenly Thanksgiving. We’ve been here since late August.
Three months.
Three months that have completely changed my life.
In the big scheme of things three months seems like nothing, such a short blip of time, but I guess that’s the thing about change—when it happens it happens, there is no appropriate timeline for it.
“How do I look?” Mia asks, coming out of the bathroom.
Her hair is curled, hanging down to slightly past her breasts. She’s dressed in a tight pair of jeans with rips in the knees, boots, and a slouchy sweater. It’s a simple, not dressed up look, but I still want to rip her clothes off and devour her.
“Fucking beautiful,” I answer, my hands shoved into my jeans.
“You look nice too,” she comments, taking in my button-down shirt tucked into my pants.
“Iamgoing to your parents’ house,” I remind her. “I’ve got to look nice.”
A worried look crosses my face and she frowns. She steps up to me, placing her hands on my chest.
“It’ll be fine,” she tells me for the hundredth time. “We’ll tell him soon.”
Soon. Such an ambiguous word. Soon could mean tomorrow or it could mean next fucking month. I want to get this over with. It’s like this dark cloud looming above us.
I nod.
“I still can’t believe he invited you guys to our house for Thanksgiving—that shows he likes you. I would’ve thought you all would’ve headed back home,” she remarks.
I shake my head. “Too much work to do.”
People don’t realize how much work goes into creating an album. It’s constant recording, re-recording, tweaking, changing, ditching songs and writing new ones only to start the whole process over again.
But it’s worth it.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out, looking at the screen. “Cannon’s here.”
“Showtime.” She smiles at me. With one look, she tries to convey that everything will be fine.
