Page 66 of The Roads We Follow

The puzzled look he gives me lingers. “And you think that applies to the tell-all?” When I give no indication either way, he sighs and presses his palms against the top of the bunk frame. “Raegan, I understand your family dynamics are less than ideal, but please think through this logically for a minute. What happens if news of the tell-all leaks to the public soon? Don’t you want your family to be prepared? Adele will need to be ready with a statement from the label.”

Just the mention of her name shoots a bolt of indignation through my core. “Do you have any idea how often I’ve submitted to my sister’s preoccupation with preparing our family for the worst, Micah? How often I’ve done or not done something based onherjudgment of what’s best forthe Farrow name? So often I’d be mortified to say the number out loud if I knew it.” I want to ease the tension I’ve created with a laugh, but the sudden constriction of my vocal chords prevents it.

When I look away, he touches my chin and draws my gaze back to his. “I’m sorry.”

I pick at the raw hem of my shorts, planning to tell him that it’s fine, that I usually reserve these pent-up moments of familialtension for my fiction, when the thought triggers an unprompted confession. “Two weeks ago I walked away from a book contract with my favorite publisher forThe Sisters of Birch Grovebecause I wouldn’t agree to write under my given name.”

His face goes slack. “What? Why?”

“Because I believed publishing under a pen name would allow me the autonomy I rarely feel in my real life, as well as the ability to succeed or fail on my own merit.” Tears crack my voice. “Because I know the minute I publish as Luella Farrow’s daughter, I sacrifice all that.”

Understanding dawns on Micah’s features, and I’m guessing he’s replaying our conversation in the hotel room through a different filter.

“Your sister doesn’t know about the offer?”

“Adele hopes my writing will stay a hobby—there’s less risk involved to the family that way.” The raw admission burns in my chest. “So yeah, maybe I’m taking the coward’s way out by thinking I can solve this crisis without her involvement, but I promise you, there’s a cost to both options.”

“Raegan.”

I pat my pockets in search of my phone. I must have left it up front. “I should probably leave so I can call Chip before everybody comes back.” I shift to jump off Micah’s bunk to the floor below when he takes my hand and assists me down.

If ever I’ve contemplated the tight quarters back here before, I have an entirely new frame of reference now. There’s barely enough room for one person to stand in this small pass-through, much less two. My instincts scream to twist away, to shelter myself the way I’ve always done, but without a word, Micah pulls me to him, and soon my cheek is pressed against his chest. The steady rhythm I find there calms my rapid-fire thoughts.

“You’re more than a hobbyist. Wanna know how I know?” he asks with a voice I could listen to all day. “You care too much. A hobby you can pick up and put down without a second thought,but a calling is part of who you are. Part of a purpose God made you to fulfill.”

Tears fill my eyes as validation sings through me.

“Thank you.” Slowly, I wipe the dampness from under my eyes. “You have a real gift in making people feel seen and heard. You’re obviously in the right profession.”

I expect his face to lift into a humble grin, but he remains stoic. “Afraid the jury’s still out on that.” Before I can ask him to explain, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out my phone. “You left this on the jump seat so I plugged it in for you.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“You had a few missed calls.”

I tap on the home screen and find Tav’s name in my notifications. He’s probably wondering about his unfinished lyrics. When I look up, Micah’s watching me intently, and the shift in his demeanor is enough for me to take note.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing that can’t wait until later. You should go make your call.”

“Micah,” I say, my concern growing. “What is it?”

“Tav’s last name is Zuckerman.”

“Yes.” I furrow my brow. “That’s right.”

“Which means his father is Dorian Zuckerman, one of the business partners your dad worked with at TriplePlay Records and then later at Farrow Music?”

I nod, wracking my brain for relevance. “Yes, that’s right, but—”

“He’s mentioned all throughout my mom’s journal entries, Raegan. Her mentions of him are ... favorable.” His voice is hushed, and yet the emotion behind it causes a seed of nausea to sprout in my belly. “Your mom confirmed he was with them the summer of ’94. He stayed back to manage the tour while your dad was away in Germany.”

“No.” My mouth forms the word, and yet it’s barely audible as it passes my lips. “Dorian couldn’t be your ... he can’t be.”

His next question is so quiet, and yet it echoes through my bones. “Tell me why not?”

Because you can’t be related to my ex, I think.Because that kind of freakish irony is only reserved for soap operas and manufactured reality TV shows.“Because—because Dorian was already married to Donna by then. He was an honorable man,” I say instead.

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