Reputation (Mason Family 2)

Her joke makes me smile—sort of.

Mom sits beside me on the edge of the bed and puts her arm around my shoulders. “Talk to me.”

I cover my face with my hands and press my fingers into my skin. The pressure of my fingertips on my forehead strangely helps me calm down.

A little bit.

Enough to talk to my mother without screaming.

“I’m heading back to Nashville,” I tell her.

The thought of being there now feels incredibly wrong.

The house that I love so much—the one that I had designed to reflect this one, the one I grew up in—doesn’t seem sufficient.

Sure, it’s filled with my music trophies and pictures of me with various important people in the music industry. There are memories everywhere I turn that remind me of the crazy, wild life that I live. Every piece of furniture, every stone in the fireplace, was hand-selected. The bed is the comfiest in the history of beds.

It has everything a man could ever want and everything I’ve ever dreamed of. It is, by all accounts, the pinnacle of my career.

Still, it lacks something that I just now realize.

It lacks a smile when I get home from the studio. It lacks a warmth that only comes from being lived in and loved in. It lacks a sink full of dishes because you got sidetracked after dinner and fell asleep wrapped around the woman you love.

It lacks a heart and a soul.

It lacks Bellamy.

“You’re heading back now?” Mom asks.

I nod slowly. “I have to be there at nine in the morning. Meadow says there’s a very real chance that I’ll lose my contract if I don’t.”

“That must be really difficult for you to have to leave on a moment’s notice like that.”

“Yeah.”

“May I ask how Bellamy reacted?”

I sigh and then look at Mom. “I’ll give you one guess.”

Mom sighs too. “I’m sorry, Coy.”

“Me too.” I spring to my feet as emotions begin to stream through me once again. “What do I do, Mom? Do I just not go? I mean, isn’t that what I’m facing here?”

“Did she give you an ultimatum?”

I narrow my eyes at her and stop walking. “You know she didn’t do that.”

To my surprise, Mom smiles.

“I really don’t think this is anything to smile about,” I tell her, annoyance thick in my tone.

“Then you’re not looking at it the right way, sweetheart.”

“Are you kidding me? You expect me to smile right now? Do you think I’ll ever smile again?”

I watch as she stands like she has all the time in the world. There’s a contentment in her features that has me reeling.

“Why are you not upset for me?” I ask her. “Don’t you see how much this fucking sucks?”

“I do, Coy. I honestly do. And I’m sorry that it sucks for you, and I’m sorry, too, that it sucks even more for Bellamy. Because she has to sit over there and wait for you to leave. And then she has to go on with her day knowing that you’ll be signing contracts, singing songs, and returning to your luxurious life … not thinking about her. And her life.”

I balk. “You think that I won’t think about Bells every minute of my life? You don’t even know how I feel then.”

She places a hand on my shoulder. It just sits there, her palm against the blade, like she’s some kind of Jedi that can fix my problems with her touch.

I fucking wish.

My emotions rise again, threatening to swamp me with their intensity. I glance through the window at the Davenport house and wish that I could turn my phone off, throw it away, and run to Bellamy’s and forget this ever happened.

But I can’t. That’s not how life works. That’s not how my life works. The slander against me can literally ruin my career. And future. All my hard work for nothing. All my compromises, pointless. All my sacrifices, moot.

And not to mention the many people who rely on me. The charities I support, the writers that pen lyrics for me. The fans that use my music as a form of therapy or a way to express their love. There are droves of people across the world that rely on me. And walking away from my label—if it were something I could even consider—would be a travesty.

Even if it causes me to give up the one thing I want more than any of that.

I look at my mom.

“Do me a favor?” I ask her.

“Of course.”

“Help her. Treat her like she’s …” I force a swallow down my throat. “Treat her like she’s my wife, okay?”

Her eyes grow wide for a split second. “Coy …”

“I was going to ask her. I thought I needed a ring …”

I look out the window again.

Would things be different if I had asked her already?

My heart cracks again, and I wonder how much is left to break.