After I’d made an exaggerated cross over my heart, I mouthed, “We will never be them.”
Her whole body sagged, but her lips curved into a smile. She gave up on trying to intervene and joined me on the couch. While they continued to bicker, Levee and I engaged in a very serious thumb-war tournament. She won even though I believed she cheated. Somehow.
Over those weeks of separation, I fell even more in love with Levee than I’d thought possible. Every night, we spent at least an hour on the phone, talking about everything under the sun. It was during that time that I realized just how much I didn’t know about her. There was probably a herd of her fans that could beat me in a game of trivia about the woman I had every intention of marrying one day.
I was okay with that. I knew all the important things.
I had to ask how she liked her eggs and what clique she’d belonged to in high school, but I knew how to make her laugh with a stupid joke and how to make her cheeks pink with a simple touch.
I knew her heart.
And I knew it belonged to me.
Thirty days, almost to the hour, after I’d dropped her off, I arrived to pick her up.
“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” Levee nervously rushed out the moment I walked into Doctor Spellman’s office.
I froze and eyed her warily.
Her gaze cut to Doctor Spellman before jumping back to me.
“I’m in trouble, aren’t I?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I got an idea.” If the timid inflection of her voice was any indication, it wasn’t a good one—even if her eyes were dancing with excitement.
Doctor Spellman stood up and headed to the door. “I’m going to leave you two alone to discuss this.” She stopped right before she reached the door and gave me a pointed glare. “Hear her out, okay?”
Oh fuck. This is not good. Even the doctor is in on it.
“Sit down.” Levee reached up to take my hand.
“You’re making me nervous.”
She smiled, pulling me down on to the couch.
Then I knew that it was way worse than bad. She didn’t settle next to me. She slung her leg over my hips and settled on top of me.
“Don’t be nervous.” She leaned in and pressed a lingering kiss to my lips.
Gripping her hips, I gave her an encouraging squeeze. “Spill it.”
And spill it, she did. “I want to put out an album next year.”
I closed my eyes and dropped my head against the back of the couch. “What happened to a break, Levee?”
“I’m getting to that part.” She playfully pinched my nipple.
However, I wasn’t feeling playful in the least.
I was anxious and frustrated.
“Then get to it,” I growled, opening my eyes and pinching her nipple back.
“Ten songs. No deadlines. When it’s done, it’s done. No publicity. Not even a photo shoot for the album cover. Surprise release. No tour. No interviews. The album will speak for itself.”
While they were all really great selling points for me—but maybe not for an album—they didn’t answer my main concern.
“Why? Why now? Why not in six months after you finish with the outpatient stuff?”
She rested her forehead on mine. “Because I think it will be more therapeutic for me than anything else. Doctor Spellman agrees.”
I laughed without humor. “What kind of voodoo did you have to do to get her approval?”
“None. I told her my ideas. She asked a few questions. Then said okay.”
I blew out a breath. “And what are these ideas, Levee? Convince me, because right now, I’m not so sure I agree with the good doctor.”
“You will.” She smiled confidently. “Did you know that our bridge is one of the only ones left in the country without a suicide prevention barrier?”
Unfortunately, I did know this. It was one of the facts I’d obsessed about after Anne died.
I nodded.
“Did you know the city has approved a plan to put one in place? But it’s ridiculously expensive and the state hasn’t been able to fund it yet?”
Now that I didn’t know.
I shook my head.
“The Fall Up.”