The Fall Up (The Fall Up, #1)(73)

As far as we could tell, Devon never went to the press about anything. All of our true secrets remained our own. There were a million speculations about how Levee and I had met, especially once the reporters had started digging into my past, but not a single person ever came up with the magical formula that ended with us standing on the top of that bridge together. I guessed Devon really did love her—or, at the very least, he loved the ability to earn a paycheck. Despite my urging otherwise, Levee gave him a glowing recommendation. She stated that their issues were personal and not professional. While I was against it at first, I was happy to hear he’d landed a job with a large security firm two thousand miles away in Chicago. I didn’t have to worry about him randomly showing up at our door, stressing Levee out.

Unfortunately, there were plenty of others to more than fill that role.

The third weekend Levee was gone, I finally got to meet her parents. Bianca and Kyle Williams decided to pop up for a surprise visit.

Levee all but burst into tears, and I couldn’t say that I blamed her.

They were…awful.

Don’t get me wrong. They loved Levee, and I was pretty sure Levee loved them too, but they were unbelievably exhausting to be around. Her mother paced, whined, complained, and nagged the entire time she was there. She lectured Doctor Spellman on the importance of accessorizing even while on the job. And the minute I removed my jacket, her lips curled in disgust. Levee lost her mind when Bianca asked how many of my tattoos I’d gotten while in prison. The woman was miserable, and to hear Levee tell it, she just liked to make sure everyone else felt as bad as she did.

Kyle Williams sat in the corner, quietly texting on his phone, only pausing long enough to jab insults at Bianca, which, in turn, set her off even more. No one could even get a word in edgewise because they argued the entirety of the two-hour visit.

At one point, they were arguing so loudly that there was absolutely nothing left to do but laugh. Levee scowled at me from across the room, where she was attempting to keep the peace.

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 f*ck. 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.”