Page 8 of Louder Than Words

Sometimes I wonder if I drove Mum up the wall with how many times I rewatched the same cartoons as a kid.

I mean, it’s not like I have anyone to ask, really. She’s been gone nearly a year, and my sister, Millie? We haven’t said a word to each other since my niece’s eighth birthday three years ago. And then there’s the sperm donor, but that’s all he ever was. So yeah, he’s also out of the question.

What I do remember from back then is the telly either being busted with a boot-sized hole in the screen, or a drunk, ratty old man sitting in front of it with a beer propped on his lap and spit dribbling down his chin. I honestly thought he was dead half the time until Mum would try to pry the pint from his hand.

That’s why every time I visit and Charlotte and Lydia won’t budge from their usual programs, I start wondering what I was like at their age.

One thing I’ve learned about growing up is that your brain has its own kind of antivirus software. It’s supposed to get rid of the bad stuff, but sometimes it glitches, and it wipes the good memories and leaves the corrupted ones behind, instead. Maybe that’s why I can’t remember what I was like at Charlotte and Lydia’s age—just the utter chaos that surrounded me back then.

“Alright, now it’s my turn to ask you,” Allie says from beside me. “Are you okay?”

I slide an arm around her shoulders and pull her to my chest.

She has no idea how okay I am. Every time I’m here, it’s like I can actually breathe. I can be me without any big expectations because she only cares about what makes me happy.

I give her a small nod. “I’m more than okay, love.”

She snakes her arms behind me, which is impressive since we’re both sunken into the sofa, but she still somehow manages it.

“Thank you for putting them to bed,” she says softly. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“It was my pleasure,” I admit into her hair.

She’s shown me what a real family looks like, and I didn’t just inch my way in. I jumped in head first—and it was the best decision I ever made. So these little moments? They’re everything to me. Mum and I did all we could growing up, but with the florist shop, my poor excuse of a father and his constant issues, and then my sister never making anything easy, those moments with her were always rushed.

But here? The only thing rushing me is—

Fuck. I forgot.

I glance at the clock on the wall.7:32 PM.

My head falls against hers and I sigh loudly. “I don’t want to leave.”

“I’m counting down the days until you don’t have to,” she murmurs.

“And I’m counting down the minutes.”

And that’s not really a joke. I’m tracking every bloody second until I don’t have to walk away from her at the end of the night. But that day still feels way too far off. We might be done recording, but now there are interviews, and getting ready for tour. And Trevor damn near blew a gasket just finding out Allie and I weredating. I can’t imagine what he’d do if he thought I was staying over—not that I’ve even had the freedom to. Between the nonstop recording and Trevor practically breathing fire, there hasn’t been a single night in the last three months where it was even possible to fall asleep with her in my arms.

But once all this shit is behind us, she’ll be my wife.

She’s mine in more ways than she probably even realizes. And yeah, maybe that sounds possessive, but I really don’t care.

She’s mine. I’m hers. Paper or not.

Some days, this drive feels like nothing.

Then there are times like tonight where it drags on, making it feel longer than it actually is.

The broken white lines on the motorway start to blur together when my phone rings, startling me slightly. Which is probably the fifth time it’s rang, and the fifth time it’ll be met with the same response.

I pull one hand from the wheel, reach over, and jam my finger right into the decline button.

It’s so bloody tempting to just say fuck it and turn back to Allie. But for more than just one reason, that’d be a terrible idea. For one, the guys would be pissed as hell. Two, she has enough of herown shit going on. She doesn’t need mine on top of it. Three, I’m fucking exhausted and just need to sleep.

Only an hour left to go.

The phone rings again—but this time it doesn’t startle me. It just pisses me off.