Music of the Soul (Runaway Train, #2.5)(37)

Her eyes widened. “Y-You are?”

When we didn’t pick up with the second verse, Eli and Gabe kept playing through the song. I’m sure they wondered what in the hell we were thinking for having a conversation in the middle of a performance. But I had no other choice. It was kind of weird have a musical interlude during your big apology scene.

I nodded. “Can you ever forgive me for the things I said? For lying to you?”

“Can you forgive me? For deceiving you?”

“I’ll forgive you, and you can forgive me.”

The corners of her lips quirked up in a smile at my words, but her expression remained grave. “Just like that?”

“I had a long time to think on the bus. And I talked to my dad.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, I did. Things are…good now.”

Tears pooled in Abby’s baby blues. “Oh, Jake.”

When I glanced out at the crowd, I saw their puzzled expressions. “What do you say we finish this song, and then we’ll talk about it after the show?”

She grinned. “Okay, I think that sounds good.”

I took the microphone back and stared into the audience. “Sorry about that, guys. My wife and I just needed a moment. Hope you didn’t mind?”

At their roaring approval, Abby and I both laughed. I counted us in, and then we started the song where we had left off. I don’t think I’d ever enjoyed performing with her more. Well, maybe the night at the Grammys before we won best duet. But tonight was special too. Nothing meant more than reconnecting. Nothing meant more than knowing she still loved me, despite my all my bullshit hang-ups and issues.

I stared intently at her when I got to the line, “Tell me it’s not my fault.”

Smiling, Abby shook her head and sang, “Tell me it’s not my fault.”

With a wink, I continued singing melody with Abby harmonizing. When the song finished, I popped out of my stool. After laying my guitar down, I pulled Abby into my arms. She abandoned her guitar to wrap her arms around me. Grabbing her under her ass, I hoisted Abby up to wrap her legs around my waist. The audience went wild, but I could have cared less. This moment wasn’t about giving them a show. It was about repairing my marriage and making things right with the woman I loved. Even though I should have moved us off stage, I couldn’t wait one moment to make things right with her. “I love you, Angel.”

“I love you, too.”

I stared intently into her eyes. “And I want you to have my baby.”

She gasped. “You do?”

“Yeah, I do. I want us to make lots of babies together. I want them to have your sweet smile, your caring spirit, and your sassiness. I want them to be as beautiful on the outside as they are on the inside, just like their mother.”

Abby’s emotions overcame her, and she started sobbing. “Don’t cry, Angel.”

“You’re so sweet, Jake. But what if…” Her eyes closed in pain. “What if I can’t get pregnant?”

I shook my head. “You don’t know that yet. The doctor said we might have to try other means to make it happen.”

“You’re willing to do that?”

“I’ll do anything for you.”

She brought her lips to mine for a frantic kiss. “Thank you, Jake. You’ve made me so happy.”

“You make me happy every day, Angel.” I kissed her again before pulling away. “What do you say we finish this show, so I can take you back to the bus and show you just how much I love you?”

She laughed. “I’d like nothing more.”





With my Atlanta Braves cap pulled low over my eyes, I hunkered down in my chair in the waiting room of ARMC or the Atlanta Reproductive Medicine Center. It was thirty minutes after closing, and the place was pretty much a ghost town, except for a few patients straggling out from their appointments. Each time someone came out to the front desk, I tensed, fearful they would recognize me. Abby, who sat beside me, would squeeze my hand reassuringly. As I cut my eyes over to her, I couldn’t help snickering at her disguise.

Her beautiful blonde hair was hidden underneath a jet-black wig. Her usually long hair was only chin length. Tortoise shell glasses were perched on her nose, and her usually sparkling blue eyes were hidden under dark contacts. Of course, the disguise had been my idea. She hadn’t given two shits about whether or not we were spotted a fertility clinic. “A lot of our fans suffer from this too, Jake,” she had reasoned. But the prideful side of me didn’t want to see our faces splashed all over the tabloids—our private agony on a grocery newsstand as people checked out with their milk and bread.

The ARMC’s Perimeter location had become a familiar fixture in our lives since I’d finally decided not to be a selfish prick and consent to having a baby. Usually you had to go a whole year of not getting pregnant before you were referred to a fertility clinic. But because of Abby’s surgery, we were a special case, and we got to cut the line.

She had been through a whole gamut of below-the-waist tests that I didn’t begin to understand. I was sure that more people had seen her vag in the last two months than in the entire time she’d been on this earth. As modest as she usually was, she didn’t seem to care her hoo-hah was on display for various specialists. For me, it helped that our doctor was a female, as were the technicians.