I knew that I needed to tread lightly with my father. I didn’t want him to think that all I cared about was music, since my dad obviously wasn’t interested in that being the path for me anymore. First, I needed to prove that I was a hard worker. At the very least, that was expected of me. It was a pretty safe assumption that he wouldn’t even entertain a conversation with me about the musical acts if he didn’t see that I was putting forth effort to make some kind of living.

Second, I needed to show up on time and lay off the weed.

“I need you at the elevators,” Stuart said. “Check the room keys of everyone who passes to be sure they belong in this hotel.”

Ugh, mindless and boring. “Will do.”

Two hours later, the only saving grace was that I got a direct view of the band setting up for their show. My fingers itched to play, and even though I’d met a few times with my former band mates—who were happy to welcome me back into the fold—I was pretty sure I needed to stay away from them. Why hadn’t I noticed what a bunch of losers they were before?

Sam had made a beeline for me about an hour earlier to talk about his grandson Micah. He said Micah was being moved to another facility and that he would let me know the visiting hours once the boy was settled. I promised him I’d visit Micah in the next couple of weeks, but I still didn’t understand his motives for seeking me out.

For all I knew, my mother had put him up to it or something.

She had always commented on how nurturing I had been to Rachel in the hospital. In reality, I think she knew how my feelings had changed. But she was cool enough not to mention it, outside of teasing me about living with two women for the summer. When she asked about Rachel, she’d get this softness in her eyes that I continued to ignore.

Regardless, I felt for the kid and would visit Micah if it made Sam happy. It might even make me feel better. Maybe I’d bring along my acoustic bass and play him some tunes.

Two women dressed in skimpy clothing now edged closer to the elevators, and I could already tell they would attempt to get by without showing their room keys.

“I need to see your keys,” I said in an authoritative voice.

“Oh c’mon,” the one in the red heels said, trying her best to use a seductive voice. “We . . . accidentally left them in our room.”

It bugged me when girls used their sexuality to get their way. But I supposed it worked on enough men to keep the practice in business.

I remained unflappable. “Which floor?”

She seemed surer of her answer to that question. “Fifth.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I muttered, reaching for my two-way radio. “Let me call the front desk and have them look up your names.”

“No, wait,” the brassy blond said, her eyes shifting guiltily. “We . . . we don’t actually have rooms here.”

“Yeah, thought so,” I said. “Nice try. Why do you ladies need to get up there?”

They side-eyed each other, and then the brunette said, “Our boyfriends are waiting for us.”

I’d heard this one before. These girls were probably supposed to meet some businessmen, away from home for the week, in their rooms. “Why aren’t they down here with you?”

Blondie shrugged. You’d think the dudes would be slicker and actually bring them up with their own cards. But they were too afraid to be seen with women who were not their wives.

“Security’s in place for a reason,” I said. They tried giving me doe eyes, but I wasn’t going for it. “For all I know, you could be strapping bombs or something.”

They laughed and looked down at their scantily-clad bodies, pretty certain that what I was suggesting was ridiculous. “You can frisk us and find out.”

But the only woman I’d consider frisking was a certain green-eyed beauty.

Chapter Thirteen Rachel

“You scheduled your follow-up appointment with Dr. Douglas, right?” Mom asked.

Every summer visit post-surgery, Mom made sure I secured an appointment with my neurosurgeon. The idea was that they would monitor the pressure in my skull. Even though the fluid had been drained during surgery, post-op complications were always a possibility. Three years out, I hadn’t had anything more than occasional headaches, some numbness, and sensitivity to light.

“Of course,” I said. “It’s not for a couple of weeks.”

“I’ll go with you,” she said, setting up a display of natural lip balms at the cash register.

I nodded. It was a given that she always wanted to come, and I was more than fine with that.

“I’ve been thinking.” I walked over to the freshly-painted chocolate-brown wall and looked around the store from that vantage point. “You need a website, Mom.”

“Um . . .” Mom looked at a loss for words as she did after many of my latest suggestions.

“I brought my camera,” I said, pointing to my bag. “I figure we can take photos and then post the items on a webpage.”

“Gosh, honey, I don’t know.” She bit her fingernail, a habit I’d been noticing a lot more recently. “How am I supposed to keep up with a website after you head back to school?”

“We can do something basic. We’ll list the hours of operation, phone number, and address,” I said, even though she still looked skeptical. “Just so people know how to find us.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” she said, folding her arms and sinking back against the counter.

“And great photos of the space might draw people in. Especially the locals,” I said, moving to another corner to see what the lighting looked like near the front windows. “They’d be willing to take a drive here to see what this place is all about.”

“That does sound like a good idea, honey,” she said, joining me at the front display to stare out across the small parking lot. “Gosh, what am I going to do without you?”

“You managed without me at the other location,” I said, playfully knocking my hip against hers. “Besides, I bet John would help if you needed him.”

“Yeah . . . he would,” Mom said with a contented gleam in her eye.

Her husband, John, had been to the shop during his lunch break this week to see our progress. I’d admit it was still awkward being around him—one of the reasons I was thankful for Dakota’s offer to stay at her place this summer. Mom and John had been married only a year—they had eloped and held a private ceremony, which was best for all concerned—and it all felt too fresh, as if they hadn’t waited for the ink to dry on my parents’ divorce papers.

John was definitely nice enough, and he didn’t act like he was trying too hard to win me over, but what I noticed most of all was how he treated my mom. It was like he revered her. It hadn’t slipped by me that they spoke openly, consulted each other on important things, and made decisions together.

I realized how vastly different that was from how Mom and Dad had interacted. They were barely in the same room at the same time. And they never seemed to agree on anything. In retrospect, maybe they’d acted civil only for my sake.

Because as soon as I’d retreat to my room, they’d argue bitterly in hushed tones, just a floor below. It was scary listening to your parents knock each other down with words. I’d lay awake desperately formulating elaborate ways to fix things, but the next morning everything would seem fine between them. Empty, but fine.

Maybe contentment in a new marriage—a new relationship—was just a novelty. I remembered how close I felt to Miles at the beginning. We talked incessantly on the phone those first few weeks. We had been a deliriously happy couple, hadn’t we?

And then I began remembering the little things. How I’d been so giddy about dating him that I let certain things slide. Like when he was out with his teammates, I was never invited along. How I stayed home alone my share of weekend nights because he had away games or would be involved with some kind of team thing. How sometimes Dakota, and even Kai, would show up to drag me out the door to a movie or to get pizza with friends.