While I still love to help Kellan with the farm every once in a while, he does have people who do most of the work. I’ve become a freelance journalist and earn good money. (You hear that, TB? You can shove that job up your tiny ass.)
I haven’t been to NYC in a long time, and at first, I thought I would miss it, but I don’t. I don’t miss it at all. I had been so engrossed with my work that I forgot how to breathe, to live in the moment, to not take people around me for granted. Stripped bare of all the things that come with working for someone like TB, I recognize how stressful my life had been. It makes me wonder how much pressure Kellan was under when he was on tour. I have no doubt that sooner or later, he would have turned into an addict like Rock, or suicidal like Casper.
As to Kellan’s previous life, his music company spun a sensational story that he was fired. Apparently something about him being hard to work with.
The lie annoys me to no end, but Kellan says it’s okay.
Just as expected, the news that K. Taylor was no longer the lead singer of Mile High resulted in a mass panic among the female population. Rumors started to circulate that he had checked into rehab like Rock, that he had OD’ed, that he had disappeared from the surface of the earth—all not true, obviously.
Kellan didn’t seem the least bothered about all the wild speculation. Maybe it was all pretense, or maybe he really didn’t give a damn. He says his previous life is nothing but a past chapter in a long book.
He’s probably right.
After five months, the rumors began to die down, and the tabloids moved on. The next big headline made its way to the front pages, and Kellan was forgotten.
Mile High hasn’t achieved the same success. It’s not because of the new lead singer—the replacement is almost as good as Kellan, but only almost. With the mask on, they even look a bit alike, and people have been claiming that the story of K. Taylor’s dropout was nothing but a propaganda spin to get media coverage.
As it happens, Mile High has slowly been disappearing off the radar, maybe because the new lead singer doesn’t quite have K. Taylor’s allure.
To me, they don’t look alike.
I would recognize Kellan’s broad shoulders and magnetic green eyes anywhere.
It’s a new band—a bunch of eighteen-year-olds from Mississippi—that has taken the world by storm. Including Mandy.
Talk about so not being loyal to her old band. She even had the nerve to ask me to go see them live, which, of course, I declined politely.
It’s one of those little secrets I’ll take with me to the grave because I’d never think of saying something to Kellan that might hurt him.
The only thing I regret is not having accepted his marriage proposal that night when I heard him sing for the first time. Back then, I convinced myself that it was just a joke, even though it had felt very real.
He hasn’t mentioned it again, and I’m not going to raise the subject.
I guess he’s forgotten. I guess, too, that at that time I wasn’t ready.
But I am now. More so because I’m expecting.
Only, I have no idea how Kellan will react.
The thought of telling him makes me a little sick.
I still haven’t told Mandy about it because she can never keep her mouth shut, and I’m afraid she’ll drop not-so-subtle hints to Kellan at every opportunity. Part of me wants to pick up the phone and call her, while another part of me refrains from doing so. I’ve been torn about it every single time we talk on the phone, and that’s almost daily.
Music is still a huge part of Kellan’s life. It’s inside him, in his blood. It’s his way to express his soul, much like a writer lives for pouring their heart out through words. He often lets me sit in a corner, out of his vision, listening to his beautiful, smoky voice when he’s composing one of his songs, which he usually goes on to play at Sharon’s bar on a Saturday night whenever he feels like it.
***
It’s early evening, and Kellan’s not back yet. I’m sitting on the couch in the living room, cradling my laptop on my lap, a mug of coffee on the side table, when I hear the door open. I look up from my notes to Sniper trotting toward me.
“Good boy, Sniper.” My hand reaches out to pat him, when I notice there’s something in his mouth. He lets it drop to my feet. I pick up the small piece of paper and laugh. “I hope you didn’t dig this up from some grave.”
The dog wags his tail in response.
I unfold the paper and realize it’s a handwritten note that reads:
Take Brenna and come to the barn.
I put my laptop aside and rise from my sitting position quickly. Even though Kellan can be pretty monosyllabic at times, his note makes me worried. It’s probably about one of his horses, and he needs me. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s asking for my help.