Page 32 of Under One Roof

I never necessarily wanted the spotlight, satisfied with playing guitar and writing music, so when we found each other, we instantly clicked in our aim for the business, as well as on a base level of friendship. Which is why I’m so happy to hear she’s been getting some interest from record labels lately, including from one she’s had her sights set on for indie folk-rock artists.

“You think you’ll ever come back?” Dahlia asks once we finish with her setlist.

“I don’t think so.” I plop down in a chair at the kitchen table. “After everything that happened with Ryder, I feel so defeated. All those years of working my ass off, writing songs constantly, going to open mics and sending demos. And for what? To be told I’m worthless.”

“You arenotworthless.”

“I know, but…” I look off into the distance, recalling the night he fired me. Making fun of me in front of everyone, dismissing me like I didn’t practically keep him upright for three years, because I dared to have a conversation of my own about my songs. God forbid, I take a small advantage of the situation.

“Some days I feel like I’ll never write another song again,” I admit, and Dahlia gasps.

“Don’t say that. You just need time to heal and rebuild your confidence. You’ll be creating in no time.”

I meet her gaze on my screen, knowing she’s right but still feeling raw and dejected. “It’s hard not to feel like a failure.”

She narrows her eyes in answer, lip curling when she growls out, “I could actually kill Ryder. Fuck it, kill your parents too.”

I sniff a pitiful laugh. While Ryder was the one to put the nail in the coffin, my parents were the ones to build it. No matter what I wanted, it wasn’t what they wanted, therefore a terrible idea. My dad wasn’t very good at compliments. Aside from calling me a whore, telling me no man would ever want me after he caught me with my high school boyfriend, he was quick to inform me I’d never get anywhere in life with my attitude and lack of work ethic. All because I preferred daydreaming and playing my guitar to wanting to stay on the farm and marrying that same boyfriend he caught me having sex with. The day I left, he told me I’d never amount to anything.

So, while I think keeping such strict schedules with Grace and Logan may not allow them to truly express themselves or their desire to spend time with their dad, I know Griffin loves them. He’s never once raised his voice or demeaned them. Besides, they wouldn’t want his attention so badly if he were anything like my father.

“I don’t have enough bail money,” I tell Dahlia. “So, thank you for the offer, but please do not commit murder on my behalf.”

“I will do it.” She huffs. “You really won’t come home?”

I shake my head, not sure where home is at the moment. “I’m liking it here for now. I’m having a good time.”

She relents. “Okay, but whenever you’re ready to start writing music again, I’m here. We’re a team, remember?”

Her words make my heart swell with gratitude and affection. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’ll never have to find out,” she promises. “I’ve got your back, now and always.”

I feel myself tearing up a bit at her unwavering support and belief in me. It’s exactly what I need to hear right now. “Thanks, Dahl. Love you.”

“Te quiero mucho.” She blows me a kiss through the phone, and we hang up in time for the back door to open. Griffin’s home.

He’s in sweats and a firehouse T-shirt, but today, he’s got a cap on, like the day I met him, and he takes it off to run his hand over his hair a few times before tossing it on the counter. Then he lifts his gaze to me, and as always, I melt under those eyes of his. It’s like he can see right into my head, past all my smiles, to my heart.

Which is why I guess he frowns at me. “You okay?”

I nod, waving at my face, hoping I’m not red from the conversation with my best friend. I hate that my first reaction to any kind of emotion is to cry. If I’m sad, I cry. But also if I’m mad or embarrassed. Or even if I can’t find something. I’ll cry. My tear ducts were born in overdrive and have yet to let up.

“I’m fine,” I say, standing, which only allows him to crowd my space.

I don’t hate that he is mere inches away, towering over me, but I hate that I can’t touch him like I want to. Put my head on his chest and curl my hands into his T-shirt. This close, I can feel his body heat. I’d like nothing more than to wrap myself up in it.

And burn.

“What happened?” He studies every inch of my face. “Did the kids do something?”

“What?” I squeak, hoping he didn’t somehow find out about what they did to me or I to them in retribution. It’s our secret. “No.”

“Whatdidhappen?” His nostrils flare, exhaling heavily from his nose. I might find his irritation on my behalf humorous, if not for the emotion clogged in my chest.

I cross my arms and lean against the counter. “Nothing. I was talking to my best friend.”

“What did she say?”

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