Page 53 of The Roads We Follow

He extends a hand to her, and both Raegan and I are impressed by the rhythm he keeps while grooving to the song. The man has to be close to eighty, and yet he could “cut a rug” better than most people a quarter of his age.

“You know I can never say no to his song.” Luella trails behind him to the dance floor.

I turn to ask Raegan if we should collect Hattie from the dance floor, but Raegan seems to have fallen through another portal. I wave my hand in front of her trance-like expression.

“Raegan?”

Her focus snaps to mine, and her mouth opens and closes twice before sound follows. “What if ... what if my mama’s real story was published before Peter’s lies are released?”

It takes a minute for me to track what she’s asking since she’sjumped multiple topic hurdles to get here, but as soon as I’m able, I want to know more. “What do you have in mind?”

“You heard Bruce, my parents’ love story is compelling—it covers so many romantic tropes and stretches over a long period of time: love at first sight, friends-to-lovers, forced proximity, forbidden romance. There’s even a secret wedding ceremony they managed to keep hidden from the public. These are the bedtime stories I grew up with, Micah. I know them by heart.” Her eyes are wild now as if she can’t quite believe what she’s about to say. “When Chip confirmed the tell-all was more than a rumor, he said the best we could hope for would be for the tell-all to be overshadowed by something far more deserving at the time of release. What if I could write that something?”

I recall what Raegan told me about the fiction book she wrote—the one about struggling individuals who fight for what they want. “I think you’re plenty qualified.”

She drops her gaze. “For credibility, I’d have to write it under my own name.”

“Is that an issue?”

“Writing is the only thing in my life that’s truly mine. No pressure, no expectation, no fear that my mistakes or failures will have any ill effect on my family. I always imagined if I was ever to get published, I’d do so under a different name.”

I know this particular conversation is far more nuanced than what she’s told me. I also know I should be professional enough to help her explore the pressures she’s mentioned as a Farrow—and the root cause to her aversion for conflict—but I don’t do any of that. Because right now, as the music slips into something slow and melodic, I don’t want to be a therapist. I want to be a man, one who acts on the all-consuming attraction I’ve felt for Raegan since the first time she smiled at me.

I step toward her to ask her to dance, and when we lock eyes it nearly sends my pulse into an arrhythmic episode. Whatever this is between us—I don’t want to suppress it any longer.

But the instant I start to speak, a short, shrill scream breaks through the dance hall. And then a second one, followed by a third, until an entire chorus is chanting a singular name that has been shouted in concert venues worldwide for decades.

As if in slow motion, the two of us rotate toward the mushroom cloud of patrons rising from the dance floor. And before I can even spot the way Luella’s black wig has been yanked from her head, exposing her signature blonde curls underneath, my adrenaline has kicked into action.

There’s no time to form an escape plan, nor enough security detail to create a proper barricade, but even still, I charge toward the chaos with a single instruction for Raegan.

“Get to the town car!”

“What?” she yells back.

“The town car!” I holler again over my shoulder. “Tell the driver to wait by the back door!”

And then I’m smashing through a mob of bodies in order to retrieve a woman I’ve come to care for with an intensity that doesn’t make sense for the short time I’ve known her. And yet, she’s not the only Farrow who’s made her mark on me in record time.

14

Raegan

The whirlwind of the last twenty minutes has stolen twenty years off my life. I’m sure of it. Between screaming for Adele and Cheyenne to follow me through the pandemonium of the dance floor, collecting my niece’s guitar and gear from behind the stage, and watching Micah barrel through the back door with my petite, wig-less mother in his arms like Kevin Costner inThe Bodyguard, I’ve nearly hyperventilated a dozen times. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the irritated skin on the inside of my left wrist has erupted in stress hives.

By the time our town car slams to a stop at our hotel, the driver has already called for the security team to escort us to our floor via a staff elevator.

The instant the elevator doors open to reveal our quiet hallway, an out-of-breath Adele whirls on Mama. “Did I or did I not warn against something like this happening without a proper security detail?”

“We’re all fine, darling. There’s no need to overreact.”

“Overreact?” Adele scoffs. “You could have beentrampled—or worse!”

“Yet instead I was saved by a bus driver in shining armor.” Mama beams up at Micah and pats his arm. “Thank you again, Micah dear. I just knew those beefy biceps of yours would come in handy.”

I close my eyes, wishing I could evaporate along with the sweat that’s prickling at the back of my neck. Moments like these are when I wish I could slip away into a different life. Preferably a fictional one.

“Mother.” Adele’s voice is low and controlled when she speaks again. “Do you not realize how your recklessness put all of us at risk tonight, my daughter included? Safety is not something we have the luxury to take lightly.”

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