24. Whimper and Coo

24

WHIMPER AND COO

SOPHIA

If my future self had told me I would be straddling a rock star while flying on his band's private plane, I'd probably have assumed my sister had laced my iced coffee with something that made me trip or I was really, really overworked and drooling on my desk.

Totally dreaming.

Except my eyes are open, my senses on overdrive, and I'm presently sitting on Mazen Wilde's lap, enveloped in his arms as we embark on the journey to Tampa and then to our final destination, Chicago. A deep blush creeps its way across my cheeks as I revel in my current reality. It fades quickly when my thoughts align again, and I remember the reason I'm nestled on his lap, the reason we're on the plane in the first place.

Mazen listened intently as I revisited the past, weaving my memories into a story meant only for his ears. I started after the fall, telling him about the mailman who found me and called an ambulance, only to be rushed to an emergency C-section for a placenta abruption that had been caused by my fall. I didn't spare any of the gory details as I rehashed my vague remembrance of the team of doctors rushing around me after Roman was born. All I cared about was seeing my son, finding out if he was alive and healthy, waiting for his first cry to echo around the operating room.

The pain was unbearable, though it dulled in comparison to the ache in my heart as I screamed out with worry, begging for answers. Later, when I awoke in recovery, they told me I was hemorrhaging as a result of my placenta disconnecting from my uterine wall during my tumble. An emergency hysterectomy was performed.

There's a glint of something I can't quite put my finger on in Mazen's eyes when my lips begin to quiver. It's almost as if his mind has placed a shield around him, readying him for the worst part.

"Roman was taken to the NICU as soon as they put me under. I woke up without my baby in complete terror. Lacey was there. She had gotten a spray tan. Her cheeks were streaked." I smile, trying to give light to the giant black cloud that has formed over us. "From the tears. It was awful."

"I'd have liked to witness that," Mazen says, though the smile he tries to force doesn't reach his steel-colored glare.

"He was so little. I was pushing thirty-two weeks. His lungs weren't fully developed. They're the last thing to develop and …" I pause, gathering my thoughts, arranging them into words. "He had suffered a small brain bleed from my fall. I held him every minute. I didn't lay him down once. Even when the nurses and doctors came in to check my incision and offer pain medication, I kept him in my arms."

One tear is followed by two and then three. I blink, and there's a steady stream falling from my eyes like a summer storm.

"Roman lived for three days. They were the best days of my life. My only regret is that I refused to allow Lacey to take any pictures. I guess … I just wanted to live in the moment. To take in every whimper and coo. My nurse cut some strands of his hair and gave me a printout of his last heartbeat. It was dark, like yours. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to take pictures."

Large hands cup my tear-stained cheeks, his touch meant to calm me, center me. Mazen holds me tightly, refusing to allow my head to turn. I'm glued to him as he admits, "You have nothing, absolutely nothing, to be sorry about. I'm sorry, Sophia. I'm so sorry." He chokes back a sob. "Who wants to see a rock star with virgin skin? Right. Maybe in a Christian rock band, sure. That's not who the Kings of Jupiter were or who we wanted to be. I went to that convention with one goal. Then, I met you, and every song I ever wrote about a woman … about anything, dulled in comparison. When we met again at the bar and then spent the night together, it was like I was fighting against time. I knew what the morning would bring. I was leaving to go on tour, and nothing could stop me. Not even the most beautiful woman in the world."

Lowering his hands, he threads them through his tousled black hair and pulls roughly at the root. "Fuck. I didn't know. How could I have known you'd get pregnant?"

"It's not your fault. It's not anyone's."

"It is though. It's Julian Caddell's. He killed our son and almost killed you. He stole your chance at birthing another child."

The pilot comes overhead and tells us to buckle up as we near Tampa, our pit stop .

Mazen intertwines our hands. Squeezing mine, he beckons my attention. "Why don't you visit him?"

There's no longer a need to say his name; my heart already knows who he's referring to.

"Because he's not there. His tiny body might be but not what matters. His memory lives in here." I raise my empty hand and pat the spot over my heart. "I don't need to go see a gravesite to talk to my baby. I do it every day, no matter where in the world I am."

My words resonate as the plane starts its descent.

A moment passes before he asks, "Will you take me to see his grave when we get to Chicago? I need to see it, Sophia. I know he's not there. I get that." He nods, eyes locked forward on the seat in front of him. "I don't have any memories of him to hold on to like you do. If his grave is all I get, I want it ingrained in my mind."

The ride to my apartment above Rose and Lace Ink Emporium is as silent as an empty cruise ship. There's a pit in my stomach that feels like I'm being buried alive. I'm fighting against the sand that keeps falling around me even though I know it's futile. Roman's death is a never-ending pain as plentiful as every speck of sand that is slowly filling me from the inside out. I wonder if that's how Mazen feels too.

His eyes are locked on to the headrest in front of him. Anger radiated from his pores on our flight. Has that deep rage subsided and turned into sorrow, mimicking my own? Or will reality only set in once it's confirmed that he is Roman's father?

I'm torn between hoping that he is and praying that he isn't.

My eyes take in the familiar buildings and landmarks as I peer out the window of the town car we're being chauffeured in. My gaze as empty as his.

Home beckons like a witch crooking her wrinkly, ashen finger at me.

Home. I don't even know the meaning of it anymore. Your home is supposed to be your haven, your refuge.

It was that once, many moons ago. When Lacey and I fled Chicago and broke ground on the studio, renovating it to our liking, it felt like home, familiar, comforting, but I never truly felt settled. I guess that's what happens when you're running from your past. Every stop along the way is a fleeting pit stop until you're forced to pack up and move again. Abandoning each place like it was insignificant, a small blip on the scale of life.

We built a business, and in a sense, Rose and Lace and the employees-turned-friends became our home.

The thought of walking into the building, both my apartment and studio, is now tarnished by the memory of Lacey's fear when she called me. The brick Caddell threw through the window didn't just shatter the glass we had installed ourselves. It also shattered the safety that I thought we had built. Though the facade we had built was already cracked, held together by masking tape and delusion.

After I've been on the road and touring with the band for the last couple of weeks, my apartment has come to feel more like a prison cell, a tether holding me back. There's a tightness in my chest as I allow myself to think that thought. The shop has been my dream. The one accomplishment that I can truly call mine and be proud of. As soon as Lacey joined me on tour, our home, the one we're pulling into now, became nothing more than an address. My small twin bunk on wheels has become more than a home; it's my sanctuary. Or maybe it's just the people inhabiting it that feel like my home.

"I'll give you some time." Mazen nods toward my apartment before finishing his thought. "To go through his things and get whatever you think we'll need."

There's not an ounce of malice in his tone. His offer is sincere. It makes me appreciate him more than ever in this moment.

"I … I don't want to go up alone." Nerves twist like vines up a tree in my stomach. "I'm normally an independent person."

"I know," he interrupts. "Come on. We don't have much time before we're due back at the airport."

Sliding my key into the lock, I swing the door wide before gesturing for Mazen and the security guard, Preston, to come inside. It's strange not having Ashton around. He and Mazen are usually glued at the hip. Preston is Ashton's right hand, so it only makes sense that he is here in Ashton's absence. I allow my mind to briefly drift over the idea of why he's not here himself. Lacey . Maybe there is something blooming there after all, and he couldn't stomach leaving her.

The broad-shouldered man I now know as Preston interrupts my matchmaker theory when he slides in front of me and proceeds to do a quick sweep of my apartment.

Room after room, he calls out, "Clear," before finally declaring my apartment safe enough for America's favorite rock star to enter.

Preston has his cell phone speaker to his mouth as he relays the message to the rest of his team downstairs. My shoulders relax instantly. Since the incident with Caddell, I feel like I've been holding my breath. That's why finishing this tour and getting paid is so important. Freedom dangles like a pendulum just out of my reach.

The guard leans against the front door frame, shifting his focus back to his cell phone, and begins to scroll aimlessly, offering a moment of privacy.

"It's in my room." I turn, hoping that Mazen follows.

I don't waste time when I open my bedroom door and sit on my knees in front of my bed. Reaching underneath, I pull out a small wooden box. My hands shake as I snake it out from the dark depths and bring it toward my chest. It's my most prized possession. My heart literally in a box.

"I have my ultrasound pictures and the little hat he was wearing in the NICU in here. A dried flower from his funeral." My hands tremble, along with my wobbling lips. "The reason we came though is for his hair. His DNA. That's what we need, right?"

Mazen opens his mouth to speak. I watch as his lips part and then close. Once. Twice. Three times before he musters up the courage to speak. When he does, his voice is tender; it's so low that it's almost a whisper. "I shouldn't have brought you here." Our knees brush when he bends to sit in front of me. "We don't have to do this. It's not important anymore. I'm going to tell the pilot that we're not going to Chicago."

Confusion throttles into me with such force that the wind is knocked out of me, causing my tone to hold a degree of meanness. "What do you mean, it's not important? It's important. It's fucking important to me. I need answers just as much as you do. "

We both make it to our feet, realizing a conversation of this caliber should be done while standing.

"You dragged me out of bed, made me feel this big"—I hold my hand in front of his face, my thumb and my pointer finger only an inch apart—"put me on your goddamn private plane and flew me home, only to what? Chicken out? I went through everything alone, Mazen. I refuse to do this alone too. So, we're going to Chicago. We're going to find out the truth, and then we're going to visit his grave." Ice dangles off my hardened words. "Together. Because you don't get to dredge up his memory and force me to relive the worst time of my life to just … claim it's no longer important to you."

Mazen looks down at me. His face pales, and his thick, dark eyebrows crease with … worry. I don't even see his hands move. His fingers tenderly take the box from my arms before he places it on my bedding as gently as humanly possible.

His captivating coin-colored eyes turn dark. A formidable, restless energy engulfs me, along with his strong palms as he cups my cheeks. I don't know what I expect when my eyes meet his again.

"Roman's paternity isn't important anymore. I say that lightly, very lightly. Do you know why?" he questions, though I don't dare move to answer him. My lips are suddenly sewn shut. "Because it comes at a cost I didn't know I couldn't afford, and I'm a fucking billionaire, Rosella. The desire to know with certainty that I … we … made a child together isn't as big as the desire I feel to never ever make you crumble like you are right now. I see it in the fields of green of your eyes. They're dulling by the minute. I can feel it."

He snakes his hands down my neck, fingers settling onto my shoulders. He moves them up and down, stroking my arms tenderly. "In your tense muscles. I can hear your pain in the steady beat of your heart. It's a gut-wrenching tune that's going to be ingrained in my mind until I take my last breath."

"Maz—"

He holds up a hand to silence me.

"You had your time to talk, to tell me like it is. To remind me what an asshole I've been. It's your turn to listen. I really want you to hear what I'm saying." He thrusts his calloused hand through my hair, forcing my neck to bend upward, our noses almost brushing by the sudden movement. "I will live in the unknown if it means your heart doesn't break again."

Leaning forward, he rests his forehead against mine. The declaration in his words hits a chord. I know with certainty that he means them. He'd fly us right back to our friends and never look back. He'd ignore the gaping hole in his chest at the expense of protecting my heart. He'd plaster on a fake smile, and things would return to normal.

Except normal is a fairy tale.

It's an optical illusion.

Mazen and I have never been normal. Not when we first met and became a mess of wild limbs or when he left the next morning without a goodbye. Nor when he taunted me, screwing women in public places, where he knew I'd catch him. Or the most obvious fact that I am with his two best friends. That I want us to all be together, that we want him to be with us too. That is definitely not normal, and oddly enough, I'm okay with it.

This, whatever is happening between us right now, will solidify if we're meant to have a fairy-tale ending.