He righted his trousers, did the whirring thing with the screen between us and our driver and called, “You can take us to the place, Rudy.”

“Gotcha, Preach.”

The whirring came back, the screen went up, and when it was up, I curled into Preacher’s side, tucking my head into his shoulder and neck, and wrapped my arm around his stomach.

He did what he always did.

He reciprocated the gesture, curling an arm around my waist and holding me close.

“So, you goin’ on tour with me?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I told his chest.

I felt the warmth of goodness invade the limo and knew I’d made the right decision because I’d made Preacher happy.

One tour.

It’d be fun.

And he was right.

Take a breath, be with my man, look out for him, have this, for him.

For me.

I’d figure my stuff out after.

I had my whole life to figure it out.

This tour would only happen now.

Or, that was, when it started in two months.

“Give me another bump, honey,” I muttered.

“You just had one,” he said.

I felt his chin coming down, so I tilted my head back to look at him.

“Yeah, and you also just made me come and when you do that, all I wanna do is curl up and take a nap. You’re way too good with your fingers, sweetheart, and I have to get through this night. I need another bump.”

He gave it to me, took one himself since it was out, and not long later, Rudy delivered us to the venue.

Before the door opened, Preacher mumbled, “I hate this shit.”

“But you’re so pretty.”

Someone opened the door just as Preacher burst out laughing.

He kept doing it as he got out and continued doing it as he helped me out.

The flashbulbs were popping from the moment the door opened.

They were blinding from the moment Preacher appeared.

But I’d learned by then how to keep my head up as we walked through the onslaught.

Though that night, the smile I usually pinned to my face was genuine.

Preacher walked with me tucked close to his side, as usual, ignored the screams of our names, as usual, and he proceeded with his eyes aimed straight ahead in order to tell them without words he couldn’t give two fucks and they were less than meaningless to him.

As usual.

Lyla:

Brad and Gwyneth weren’t there.

[Laughs]

And I don’t know how long after it that was, but I remember being in the kitchen, making bread because that was my jam then. I was making all sorts of bread and pretzels and bagels and all that kind of thing.

I wasn’t bad with the bread.

But my pretzels and bagels were terrible.

[Laughs again]

Preacher comes in, throws the magazine down and this poof of flour jumps up.