Chapter 71: Rocker Girls Lose Their Beat

Introducing the incomparable Rowan del Marco...in a moment when she both despairs and shines, like any true rock star...

Row

Beep.

I'm driving a classic T-bird. The top is down. Riley is with me. I don't know where the hell I am—somewhere very flat and very bright. I guess we are headed to a show, because three of my guitars and two amps are in the wide, vinyl backseat.

I am laughing at Riley who's wearing lightening bolt sunglasses and singing a mocking rendition of The Smiths Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now.

People don't know that Riley is funny. Like in a self-deprecating way. The way he makes fun of the old British post-punk scene—a genre bands like Riley's stubbornly tried to revive a decade ago.

Beep.

Riley stops his imitation mid-Morrisey and removes his sunglasses. "Pull over, love," he says, pointing to a stroller on the side of the road.

I don't want to, I'm afraid we will be late for the show. He insists. I don't pull over. The car stops just the same.

Beep.

He's singing again. The time The Cure. Lovesong. "Play it," I tell him, hoping for once he will pick up a guitar. I reach back to hand him my Epiphone—to play unplugged. That's when I realize—all my guitars are gone. There's a dark haired, blue-eyed baby in the back seat—a girl in zebra striped leggings and florescent green onesie.

I eye the baby suspiciously, trying to figure out just how that happened, because I definitely didn't stop for her.

Beep.

Riley reaches back and puts the lightening bolt sunglasses on the baby. He croons to her. She giggles behind the funny glasses. I don't smile on the outside. I press the accelerator, hauling ass to the show.

"My guitars better fucking be there," I tell him.

"No worries, love," he says.

Beep.

The show has started without me. Harper, Sadie, and Chili are yelling for me from a Mardi Gras parade float that is entering a giant roll-up door

"What the fuck? I hated the Mardi Gras stage set."

"No, you didn't," Riley says unconcerned.

"Yes, I did."

"They didn't.. They chose while you were at the hospital."

Beep.

I reach back for the baby. "You have to take her. I have to perform."

There are only guitars.

I feel frantic.

"Where did she go?"

"Who?" Riley asks as he tunes my guitar.

"The baby!"

He gives me a crooked grin. "You're cracking up, love. She was just a dream."

Beep.

Now he's standing side stage. "Rowan. It's time to wake up," He gestures to the stage. He always says that before I take the stage. It's time to wake up. Because the stage lights are like a blinding dawn, a new opportunity for the brightest day, the best life.

The stage is glowing like a sun. I can feel the heat of the lights and my skin yearns for them. But I'm looking all around for the baby. I have to find her. I need to find her. "We can't just...leave her..."

Beep.

"Rowan," Riley gestures impatiently.

"Just...wait a damn minute," I growl at him.

"Rowan. You are dreaming." Riley is wearing a doctor's mask, but I can see the look of exasperated tolerance in his eyes.

He's handling me. I hate it when he handles me. I'm not a child.

Beep.

"Rowan. It's time to wake up."

"She was real. Don't tell me what wasn't real. And what the fuck is that beeping? And stop calling me Rowan, goddammit!"

"Rowan. Rowan? Can you hear me?"

Beep.

I open my eyes. Everything familiar is gone. No side stage. No Riley. No guitar.

No baby.

Just Dr. Carmichael, his surgeon's mask dangling around his neck. "What do you prefer to be called?" he smiles.

Awww, shit. I said that out loud? What else did I say? Doesn't matter. People say stupid shit under anesthesia. I'm sure this doctor doesn't give a damn.

"Row," I croak. My throat. Do I have a show to perform?

Shit, no. That was the dream. The tour doesn't start for six weeks.

"Don't worry, it's just dry," he says, gesturing for a nurse. "Can we get Row some water please?" He reaches for my arm. "You've been out a little longer than normal. Your IV drip is finished," he says as he expertly rips the tape away from the butterfly needle.

He looks at my face. "You didn't even flinch."

"High tolerance for pain," I whisper. I'm trying to make the bed elevate. I hate lying flat on my back with someone standing over me, all in charge, and me, like I'm some kind of...victim. I sit straight up,take the water from the nurse, drink it greedily.

He smiles at me, tossing his gloves, then pressing buttons to raise my bed to match my posture.

I rake at my hair, looking for the elastic I wear on my wrist, beneath my bracelets. No elastic, no bracelets, no rings. They even took my nail polish off.

"Thanks for leaving my tattoos." I gesture to the musical notes on the sides of my fingers.

He smiles. "Your mother has all your jewelry. Your clothes are in the bag right there," he gestures to a gray plastic bag hanging on a hook in the recovery cubicle.

"Awesome," I hold out my hand for the bag. "I'm not shy. You don't even have to have the nurse take me in the bathroom. Just pull the curtain please, and I'll get dressed and be on my way."

"What's your hurry?"

"No offense, but this has been in the top five shittiest experiences of my life, and I would like to bounce out of here as quickly as possible."

"I understand."

He speaks doctor, giving me a vague promise of discharge "soon." He tells me everything went fine; he goes over the aftercare. He says I should follow up with my own doctor at home as soon as possible. He explains there will be some genetic testing on the fetus and that he will call me with the results. He tells me this is most likely an unfortunate singular circumstance and there is no reason to worry about my future ability to have children. Then he says he will be right back. He walks away to a nurses station I can see through glass, checks a computer, comes back with a single piece of printed paper.

"This is the result for the paternity test you asked us to perform. Do you still want it?"

I scrape across the tattoos on my fingers. Do I? Does it matter? My mom told me Riley is here and he knows about the baby—nope, no good reason to even think that word anymore—he knows about the miscarried pregnancy, and I know he will assume "responsibility" to my parents, even if he entertains doubt. Because that's how he is. He assumes responsibility for everything.

"Row?"

I make a snap decision. "Yes," I hold out my hand for the paper, assuming an air of certainty. My dad says always act like you know the hell you are doing.

He hands it to me.

I try to make sense of the words and numbers on the paper.

The 99.9% seems like the important part.

"The DNA sample you supplied is the father," the doctor confirms.

It doesn't surprise me. I felt it, sitting in that abortion clinic. I felt it, looking at the ultrasound image.

"Okay," I say. "Thank you."

I manage not to break down while the doctor and nurse confer. Not while he tells me my vitals are stable and I will be transported from recovery to an outpatient discharge room for another hour of observation. Not while the transporter hooks my clothes bag on my bed and wheels me to another room. Not while the new nurse give me more practical aftercare instructions than the doctor did, which involves horrifying products I imagine are only one step down from adult diapers.

She asks me if I want my family to come back. I say no, not yet.

When she leaves, that's when I lose it.

I'm not even sure why I'm crying. Because of the miscarriage? Or because Riley was the father? Or because of the damn dream? What the fuck is up with my subconscious anyway? I never once let myself picture a baby. Not once, because I was resolved how this scenario was going to play out.

Was I, though? Did I not go to Riley's suite last night, to tell him the truth? The whole truth? Did I not go to talk about what we should do?

But didn't I also renege on that plan and agree with my dad that Riley and I should cut it off? Did I not decide to go back to the clinic and not wimp out this time?

Then again, did I not hysterically make the doctor print out the picture of my dead baby?

Wait. What happened to that? I crawl from the bed and grab my bag of personal belongings, dumping it on the bed, scattering it.

It's not there. It probably got lost.

I tell myself it's not a big deal. I tell myself it's better to just...let it go. I'm possessed by an urgent need to be in my own clothes. Hastily, I dress. My skin tight jeans won't button over this damn adult diaper. With irritation I pull at my tight baseball tshirt, hoping it will cover my unzipped pants. It doesn't. I can't leave this hospital with unzipped pants. What if somebody snaps a picture?

Oh god, I must look like hell. I must look like someone who is...sad. Weak. Vulnerable.

I start to cry again. Some idiot tied my boot strings together and I can't get them undone. I throw both my boots across the room.

Well that was just fucking stupid. I need those shoes to get the hell of here.

I grab the boots and sit on the bed and cry while I work to untie the knots.

A shadow falls across the bed. I don't have to look up to know who it is. His shadow has fallen across by bed my entire life.

I snuffle and hold the boots up to him. He takes them, and sits on the floor, at my feet, patiently working the knots.

"They said you could leave?" he asks nonchalantly.

"Fuck no," I huff staring down at his steel gray, wild hair. "They said you could come back here?"

"Fuck no," he replies with a sad grin. He makes quick work of the knots and puts my boots on, like he did when I was little. He laces them too tight, like he always did then, too. This time I don't complain. The tightness makes me feel...more held together. My tears stop.

He curls up his knees and leans back against the wall. "This is a tough one, Doodle. I can't fix this one or help you in any way except love you through it."

I nod silently, looking at my hands.

"You can feel anyway you want about this. You can feel a lot of ways at once."

I nod again silently, still fascinated by the lines in my palms.

"Row."

His voice makes me look at him. "I'm sorry you lost your baby. It's okay for you to be sorry, too. It's also okay to feel guilty because maybe you were scared and didn't want to be pregnant."

I crawl onto the floor and crawl into his lap and confess. Not because he needs it but because I do. "I went to an abortion clinic. I couldn't go through with it. Not without talking to Riley. But I couldn't bring myself to tell him, either. He's not even my boyfriend, Daddy. I didn't want to be pregnant, I didn't want this complication with Riley, but I didn't want this, either."

"Sometimes in life there are no good choices. But it's even worse, when you feel like you get no choice at all."

I nod against his chest.

"Like this."

"Yes. But also the way I made you feel about Riley. That you couldn't choose him."

"Priscilla makes me feel like he can't choose me."

"You know what?"

"What?"

He grips me tighter. "She's fucking dead, and I'm an asshole."

I laugh a little. My dad has the weirdest way of making me feel better.

"What about all that stuff you said? About not being led around by my manager?"

"Prove me wrong," he kisses my temple. "Find a way to make it work better than most. If it's what's you want...fuck the haters, fuck your old-fashioned dad. You and Riley find a way."

We sit in silence for a while longer. Suddenly I focus on his watch and realize it's 4pm.

"Don't you have soundcheck?" There's a second show tonight here in San Francisco.

"Nah. I told Trace to fill in. He's not thrilled, but he understands."

"For soundcheck?"

"For the rest of the tour. I'm coming home with you and your mom."

I sit up, scowling at him. "No. No way. If Trace starts fronting for Skid Marcs, then that's all the del Marco coverage the press will be able to bear. Strut's tour will be overshadowed."

"Doodle, I can't just go put on a rock show tonight—"

"You certainly can," the voice I crave says crisply.

Riley is standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking unsure. His eyes look red behind his glasses. His hair looks spikier than usual, like maybe he pulled at it. But the set of his mouth is resolved.

"He knows bloody well I've made all the arrangements to take you and your mother home to LA as swiftly as possible. I also told him the same thing—that Trace stepping into Skid Marcs front role—even temporarily—is terrible for Strut press. It sets up a comparison you can't win because the game is fixed for Trace. His unbelievable "lost del Marco" story eclipses your talent when it comes to press coverage. Period."

"This is not a time to think about industry bullshit—"

"It's a time to think about what sets Row most at ease. Worrying about Trace becoming the del Marco front-heir-apparent? Not good for her recovery. She won't rest at all."

My dad looks at me. He growls slightly. "He's right, isn't he? My solution would upset you more than if I stayed on tour?"

"It's not that I don't need you at home, Daddy..."

"It's that you need your mother, and you need him," he hooks a resentful thumb toward Riley, who is still yet to enter the room. "And you need your brother not to usurp your limelight."

I hug him tight. "Yes."

"Fine, fine, I'll go. But if I'm going, I have to go now," my dad is already struggling to his feet, taking me with him. He deposits me back on the bed. "I love you, Doodle. "

"I love you too, Daddy."

"Take damn good care of her," he admonishes Riley.

"That is my job isn't it?" Riley says with a twitch of the lips.

"Smart-ass." The legend exits, and something charged swarms behind him, like he left a vacuum and now all the air is rushing to buffer Riley and I.

"Hey."

Lame, but what the fuck else am I supposed to say? It's so much easier just to use the one syllable and keep all the frantic, desperate sad and sorry syllables at bay for now.

"Hi." He finally fully enters the room. He sits down on the bed and takes my hand in both of his. He kisses it. Then he wraps his arms around me.

"How are you feeling?"

"Okay, considering."

"Row. How are you really feeling?"

I consider. "Like I'm barely keeping it together. Like one tiny thing is going to tear my rock star costume off and I'm going to fucking lose it."

He smooths my hair. "Then let's get you home."

Riley is even more efficient than usual. He packs up my few aftercare supplies and folded paperwork. He sees without me having to explain that I need a longer shirt, and gives me his plain white undershirt. He charms the discharge nurse into letting him push my wheelchair, the whole time feeding explanation and instruction about getting out of the hospital minimally seen and our whole itenerary back to LA.

He keeps it up on the flight back home, telling me about the doctor's appointment he had Ariadne schedule for me in two days, letting me know that Bridget has had staff freshen up my suite in my parent's house, since I haven't been home all summer, telling me that Ariadne canceled the press dates for next week, agreeing with me that we can wait a few days to decide about the following week's schedule.

He speaks to me like Riley the manager. That might sound callous, but it's comforting. It's the way we always engage in public. This I can do and keep it together. I don't know how to talk to Riley, the father of my angelchild.

My mother is a woman with perfect pressure. She knows how to use a heavy hand with my dad, the press, lobbyists and politicians, but she always adjusts her touch for us kids and our large circle of family and friends in just the right way.

Like when she says to me, "Row, Riley has been so helpful. Is there anything our staff can help him accomplish?"

"Oh, well..." I say, my mind struggling to take hold of my thoughts, examine her words. It's her very delicate way of reminding me to think of what happens when we arrive home, and maybe also of Riley's needs.

I turn in my captain's chair toward Riley, who hasn't done much except watch me carefully and consult his phone for the last two hours. He abandons the latter and resumes the former. "What is it? What do you need?"

I curl my hand over his. "You. Will you stay with me?"

He shoots a glance at Marianne who nods. "Of course."

Then I turn to my mother. "Then can you have someone go to his apartment and pack a few days worth of clothes? Casual clothes? I have a key to his place in the console of my Vette."

"That's not necessary..."

I tighten my grip on his hand. "It sort of is, because you can't go around naked, and I can't stand the idea of you leaving me right now...even to go across town for three hours to pack..."

"All right," he says mildly, and to my mother, "Thank you." He's always so damn polite. I like that about him, but I have no idea what a guy like him sees in a rocker girl like me.

No idea at all. I just know he doesn't let go of my hand for the rest of the flight.

—————————

Bridge doesn't mean to make me feel like shit when we get homem but her tearful silence and the way she hugs me so tentatively—makes me feel like some kind of pariah.

It's kind of weird that my twin sister is a virgin at nearly twenty and I'm...the opposite. And now I've gone and done the one thing she will probably never do...have an unplanned pregnancy and a messy, uncomfortable, awful, awkward loss.

I love Bridge like I can't explain to anyone that doesn't have a twin, but sometimes it feels like she got all the grace and discipline and I got all the rocker's insane impulses.

"I wish you had told me," she whispers. "I'm so sorry you went through this all alone."

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to make it your problem, too."

Bridge doesn't say anything else, she just holds me tight, until I start to cry again.

Hard. Because now I feel like I've hurt her, shutting her out, but how could I tell Bridge that I was contemplating an abortion?

It's not exactly that she's someold fashioned throwback that doesn't believe in a woman's right to choose, but she's also big on family and big on tradition. Freakishly mature, in fact.

I remember that she took our Mom's pregnancy losses—she had three between Lane and Alley—so hard. We were like sixteen, seventeen—old enough to understand what our Mom was going through but it was still pretty awkward for me and Street. Mom mostly relied on Dad, but Dad relied on Bridge to be his back-up during that tough year.

While I'm clinging to my sister my mom is being engulfed by Lane and Alley, who haven't seen her in a number of days. The Skid Marcs tour is no place for them right now, with Jax getting a divorce and raising all kinds of cocaine-fueled hell. "Yes, oh my goodness I missed you!" she scooping Alley up at the same time she's bending down to hug Lane.

I stare at her. Our life is rock star crazy but my mom is the best mom. Seeing her with my baby brother and sister is making my hyperventilate, and I don't know why.

She locks eyes with me. "Bridge, honey—Row is exhausted. I'm sure she wants to go to bed...will you help her, if she needs anything? And make Riley at home? And I'll join you after I catch up with these two rascals?" She smiles at Lane and taps his nose. He growls at her and pretends to bite at her finger.

"Of course," Bridge says, locking hands with me and leading me slowly through the series of large rooms into the main part of the house, then behind the kitchen, down the Trophy Corridor that leads to the new addition on this old mansion, what we kids call the South Suites.

Riley is trailing just behind us. Bridge looks back uncertainly. "Riley are you staying with us for now?"

"I...uhh...yes...but...where are we going?"

Oh. I forgot. Riley has probably never been past the "public areas" of our large compound.

"To the South Suites," Bridge explains for me, sensing my fatigue. "About five years ago, our parents renovated to give us older kids more privacy. Street, Bridge, and I each have our own suite of rooms. There's a common kitchen, a music room, a game room, and our own pool and hot tub too."

"I bet you were all very popular in high school," he says dryly as Bridge stops in front of my suite door.

"Bridge was. Street, too. I got kicked out of three high schools. The only friends I managed to keep were the Strut girls."

"You have true friends. My friendships were mostly shallow. Few of whom I trust now, because they are all after my handsome Prince," she lifts her eyebrows in mock melodrama.

"Your rap thug," I remind her with a snort.

"Sometimes," she agrees with a serene smile as she throws open my door and I pull Riley through.

She stands in the door. "Is there anything I can get you?"

I sigh. I walk slowly back and open the Personal Belongings bag and show her the crude feminine products they sent me home with that seemed like they were surely manufactured in the 19th century.

"Something better than this?" I mutter, glancing over my shoulder at Riley, who is just as graceful as Bridge and pretending to peruse my suite decor, though I know my Spymaster is taking all in.

"Oh god," she wrinkles her nose. "There's got to be something better. I'll go ask mom..." she glances at Riley. "And I'll text before I come back..."

Just like that, Riley and I are alone and staring at each other. "So this is your place. Not quite what I expected."

I suppose people think they I either live in a dungeon or a red room of pain or something, but actually, I'm not all that different than most twenty year old girls. Well, except for the pure obsession with my music, the focused ambition for my band, the mouth like a sailor, a practiced alcohol tolerance and a rather high sex drive.

But I like Pinterest, too, okay?

My suites are black and white with touches of chrome and pink. The walls are white but in the sitting area, they lined with large print A charcoal of a female hand prettied with bracelets and rings, deliving the finger to the world. That one is Street's work—my eighteenth birthday gift. Other graffiti prints, done in vary shades of pink, came from a designer. In my bedroom, three walls are done in wide, horizontal black and white stripes. A fourth wall covered in a delicate expanding outline of flowers. Also Street. He gave me a giant case of pastels and told me the wall was a coloring project, but his work is so pretty and I was never good at staying in the lines.

Riley is coolly taking it all in and coming to conclusion that everyone does when they see my rooms. That maybe my bad-assery is a little bit front.

Of course it's a front. I mean, I was raised by Marianne del Marco. I have been civilized. But at the same time? My rock star front is part of me, because I was also raised by Matt del Marco.

Riley shakes off his surprise at my decor and moves toward me slowly, like I'm a wounded animal. "How can I help you right now?"

I despise feeling...weak or needy. I can't harldy help backing away from him.

"I uhhm...I need to change and...uhm...take care of stuff...but I've got it..." I tell him, before escaping to my bathroom.

I stay in there for practically an hour. I take a shower and I put on sweats and I sit at my vanity, with no energy whatsoever to dry my hair.

I have no energy for that, but yet I rise and pace restlessly around the large black and white space.

Eventually, Riley knocks on the door. "Row?"

"You can come in."

He opens the door. Silently he watches me pace.

"Dearest, not to morph into our Adam, but if you don't get off your feet, I might have to turn to the bottle to ease my anxiety."

"Oh! God! A drink! That sounds wonderful!" I stride past him into the common area and head to the bar. I begin pulling out the bottles, looking for decent gin. It's not really a popular liquor in our SoCal crowd, but it's all that Riley drinks. "Shit, Riley all we have is some fucking Tanqueray's..."

"Row—" He relieves me of the bottles. "Please. Stop. There's no need. I don't want a drink."

"Well, I do. I haven't had one in a month or more. And god knows, I need it."

"Alright," he says calmly. "I'll make you a drink, then."

"Well, I'm not having one if you're not having one."

"Fine. We'll have a drink." He gestures to one of the stools in front of the bar. I sit gingerly. I'm sore all over. I'm not sure why. Stress or maybe the effects of the anesthesia.

He grimaces as he observes me moving so slowly, then goes about making my favorite drink—a watermelon cosmo, but in a lowball, Even though I like girly drinks I hate fru-fru glasses that spill easily. He makes himself a gin and tonic with lemon. By some spoken agreement, we slide back into my suite and sit on my hot pink velour couch.

Riley hesitates. "It feels wrong to toast to anything, doesn't it?"

I bite my lip. "I sort of want to toast you, for not being angry that I didn't tell you."

"Oh, I was angry, love. The anger has simply detached in all the trauma. But I'm also overwhelmed by my concern for you."

I sip my cocktail. "That's...fair."

He looks at my drink. "You...you said you hadn't had a drink in a month?"

"No, not since...not since I bailed out of the clinic."

He's beautiful blue eyes widen behind his glasses. "You went alone for an abortion?"

I nod. "Yes, but I couldn't."

"So...you had...made your decision? Leaving the clinic, abstaining from alcohol..."

"I hadn't decided for sure...I just couldn't do it then. Without you knowing. Without us talking it through..."

"And yet you still didn't tell me. Why?"

I don't answer. I sip my drink.

"Rowan."

I rise and pull the paternity test result from my personal belongings bag. I hand it to Riley, who is automatically adjusting his glasses before the paper touches his hands. He looks at it. His jaw clenches.

"It's a positive paternity test. They did it today."

"Yes."

"Who gave the sample?" he says lightly.

"You did. This morning when Bodie busted your lip."

He looks up sharply.

"Are you joking?"

"I've never been so serious in all my life, Riley. Look, there was only one time I was with someone else this summer...it was a mistake and I really regretted it. But I had to know who the father was. I couldn't terminate if it was yours...I just couldn't...not without telling you.

"Maybe I wouldn't have at all, I don't know. All I know is I don't want to lie about why I didn't tell you, and I don't want to play this game anymore like I don't care, and I don't want anyone but you. The baby was yours. And now it's gone, but it made me realize...I don't want to lose you, too."

Riley slides his drink carelessly onto the table, and rises to face me. He pulls off his glasses. His eyes are wild with emotion. "Sit down upon the goddamn couch, Row."

It is not like me to do what anyone tells me to do, so I say. "No. Not until you kiss me and show me you don't hate me. Because if you hate me now, you can just go. I have plenty of people that can help me recuper—"

He grabs my head with one hand, and I find myself confused and overwhelmed by his passion. He kisses me like he's gasping for the breath of life. He certainly takes mine. He takes nearly all I have left.

Just as I'm getting lost in his taste and smell—gin and rosemary aftershave—he plants his hands on my arms and detaches from the kiss.

"Satisfied with my proof of affection?"

I reach out to steady myself because I actually do feel faint. "If I swoon, I suppose I'll never hear the end of it?"

He grips me more tightly.

"I've changed my mind. The couch is not sufficient for your rest. To bed, please," he says calmly.

"You think you can just order me around in our personal life now, Riley? That's not how it's going to go, you know..." I'm too tired to curse, or even yell, and my protest sounds more wounded than forceful.

"It wasn't an order. It was a request. And I'll join you, if you will...just.lie.down. For God's sakes, Row, you've got nothing to prove."

"So you don't hate me?"

He examines my face from forehead to lips. "Do you hate me? For getting you pregnant and putting you through this ordeal?"

"Of course not."

"Then how could I hate you?"

"Because I didn't tell you. Because I slept with someone else. Because I had Bodie steal your DNA sample."

"I am rather irritated on point one, and bloody furious about point three," he says, taking me by the elbow and leading me to the bed. "But upon point two, I heretofor had no grounds for displeasure. We have made no promises to each other, have we?"

"Nooooo..."

"Do you think perhaps it's time for a few?"

"You first."

"Here is my first promise to you. If you don't get in the bed and rest properly, I will delay Strut's tour."

I narrow my eyes at him. "You wouldn't dare."

He pulls back the black comforter and tosses the pink pillows on the floor. "No darling. That's not how this works. I made a promise. Now it's your turn to make a promise to me, not a declaration of indignation."

I love the way Riley talks. His accents, the precision of his words. The dry wit. The way he calls me darling and dearest. I'm so far from a darling or dearest by nearly anyone's standards, but somehow, when he says these things, I almost believe it. Enraptured as I am, I find myself saying:

"I promise to be your girlfriend."

"More specific, please."

"I promise to be your adoring girlfriend?"

He raises an eyebrow.

"Your monogamous, committed, girlfriend who stands up to her insane father in defense of our relationship?"

"Now that's an impressive promise," he agrees. "But are you going to force me to make good on my promise?" he pulls out his phone. "I've got the promoters on speed dial, you know....

I crawl into the bed. I pat it, "You promised to join me."

"I did, didn't I?"

He toes off his shoes and lays his phone and glasses on the nightstand and crawls in fully clothed. I move to him at once, and he envelops me in his embrace. It's not the first time by any means. But it's the first time I'm sure we will wake like this...that one of us won't feel compelled to edge away with excuses.

"Your turn," I whisper.

"I promise to love you and only you," he kisses my lips gently.

I start tearing up again. "Me too. But if I say it, I'm going to come apart."

"I think you have every proper justification today for coming apart, Row," he says softly. Then he smirks slightly. "Therefore, I won't hold it against you."

I climb up on my knees and look down at him. "Riley, I love you. I'm in love with you, and I've never been in love before so...don't mess me around, okay? I think maybe I'm not as tough as I used to think..."

Tears are slipping and I can't make anymore words come. He pulls me down gently beside him. I cry for a long time in his arms as the bright sky outside my window slips into soft twilight, and my hard edge, already blurred, dissolves completely when it comes to this man.

He makes more promises. He promises me his past is laid to rest. He promises me he believes in my talent and in my band. He promises me he will see Strut as big as Soundcrush. He promises me our work won't interfere with us.

Somewhere during his lullaby of sacred words, my emotions smooth out and I rest quietly, with Riley twirling my waistlength hair into a soft coil at my back.

"Does this make it better or worse, love?" he asks gently.

I understand what he means. He means about the baby.

"Both," I whisper. "It makes it better because it finally brought us together. It makes it worse because now I know it was a...a love we made and lost. But...I wasn't ready, Riley. I'm sorry, but I wasn't."

"I know. Not just you. We weren't ready, Row. So we must take the lesson, and become more responsible. I never want this to happen again...unless and until we choose it."

"Yes. No more slip-ups. No more taking chances..."

"Agreed."

We spend a long time in drowsy silence. I know maybe I shouldn't dredge it up, but I can't forget about the dream and I need to talk about it.

"I dreamed about the baby, when I was waking from anesthesia," I say drowsily. "We found her by the side of the road. She was about a year old in the dream. She had crazy black hair and clear blue eyes like you. She wore zebra print and fluorescent green. You put emo sunglasses on her. You sang The Cure to her while we drove in a classic car. I thought the situation was sketch at first because she was making us late for a show, but she was cute and happy. When we got to the show and she disappeared, and I couldn't find her...I was frantic. Scared. That's when I knew she was my baby, even though we just...stumbled on her."

Riley lets out a shaky breath and I glance up at him. He's trying hard to keep himself mastered. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you...it wasn't really a bad dream...until the end."

Riley pulls his wallet and withdraws a thin piece of paper. I know what it is. The ultrasound picture I thought I lost.  He doesn't unfold it. He puts it in my hand and draws my hand on his heart. "Perhaps we'll find her again one day, yeah? In a place where there are no longer any bad outcomes."

I don't answer. It's all I can do to nod and  focus on stemming my tears again. I figure they will be like this—start and stop—for a little while.

Well now, how are we feeling? For me, I feel like there is both sadness and happiness here, but I'd love to hear how you readers are feeling this scene...