Page 4 of One More Made Up Love Song (Midnight Rush #2)

I tug my phone out of my back pocket, then scroll through a dozen new text messages.

I pull up the group chat with my former Midnight Rush bandmates, where several new messages are waiting for me.

We were only a boyband for just shy of three years, and that was over eight years ago.

But we recently reconnected for a one-time reunion show just before my tour, and we’ve been talking on a more regular basis ever since.

The first message is from Adam, a picture of him with his arms full of what look like golden retriever puppies. The message under the picture reads, One for each of you.

It’s exactly the kind of dog I would want if I could have a dog, but something like that feels a long way off. Like a thing that will happen when my real life starts.

I know a lot of people would kill to make music for a living. To tour like I’m touring. To fill stadiums with fans. I love that I get to do it. But when I crashed at Adam’s farm for a weekend and watched him living his life, something in me shifted, and I haven’t been the same since.

Adam isn’t in the music business anymore, though he’s been writing again, which is amazing. One of the only songs I’m actually excited about recording is his.

But most of his time is dedicated to his dog rescue. He spends his days covered in dog hair, scrubbing out kennels, and somehow, I’m jealous of the guy.

I zoom in on the pictures of the puppies. The one on the left has one of its ears turned inside out, its tongue lolling to the side in a way that makes me grin. That’s a dog with personality.

I quickly read through the other guys’ responses to Adam’s picture before adding my own reply.

Jace

Sure. A puppy is exactly what I need to make my life easier.

I chuckle. Poor Jace. His son was born four months ago, and since his marriage ended two months before that, he’s parenting on his own. His ex-wife hung around long enough to have their second baby, then she flew home to Australia to “recover,” leaving Jace to do the single dad thing.

If her Instagram feed is any indication, recovering looks a lot like hanging out on the beach with her pro-surfer brother and all his friends.

Jace is better off without her, but I can’t imagine what he’s up against raising two kids on his own.

Leo’s reply is next.

Leo

Golden retriever? I had one of those as a kid.

Adam

Not sure about the dad, but the mom is purebred golden.

He follows this message with a second photo of a fully grown golden retriever with white-blond fur.

There’s something so grounding about this conversation. Because it doesn’t really matter. We aren’t talking about anything important. But we’re talking. Staying connected.

A little piece of the loneliness that’s been chasing me all night slips away as I add my reply to the text thread.

Freddie

You know I’d take one if I could. The one on the left looks ready for a good time.

The rest of my text messages I pointedly ignore.

One from my new agent, asking about an update on the album and if I feel ready to record.

I’m booked in Leo’s studio in Nashville for nearly all of my two-month vacation, and the album is supposed to be fully recorded before we start the next leg of the tour.

I’m happy it’s Leo who will be working with me—he’s an incredible producer—but working with him also feels like pressure.

I don’t want to waste his time. And if I can’t figure myself out, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

And finally, a message from Mira Stapleton, hoping we can sync up when I’m in LA for the last show on this leg of the tour.

Mira is an actress I’ve gone out with a few times.

She’s beautiful and smart too, though you wouldn’t know it by the way she plays it in interviews.

But she’s also very famous. Dealing with my own fame is difficult enough.

I’m not sure we have sparks enough to justify dealing with her fame on top of mine.

It can’t be a good sign that thinking about seeing her again mostly just makes me tired. But the more I think about the real life I’m not living, the more certain I am that Mira is not the woman I’m looking for.

Once I’ve read all my new messages, I scroll down to find the text thread with my mom.

We don’t communicate all that often, but I’ve got a show in Seattle next week.

It’s one of the last ones before the second leg of the tour takes me back to the east coast, so if my family would like to come to a show, now is the time.

I type out a message to my mom and schedule it to send first thing tomorrow morning.

She wouldn’t get the message in the middle of the night, even if I sent it, because Ridgefields are not the kind of people who sleep with their phones by their beds.

But she wouldn’t appreciate seeing a timestamp that reads 2:33 a.m. regardless.

Freddie

Any thoughts on the Seattle show? You won’t have to deal with the crowds. VIP treatment, a private box. Let me know .

I toss my phone onto the nightstand and sit up before unzipping my hoodie and shrugging it off, then I tug my shirt over my head.

I’m not even sure why I’m sending my mom a message.

It’s not that we don’t get along. My parents are good people who did a decent job raising me. But we are…what’s the best way to say it? Very different kinds of people.

They’re both college professors in the mathematics department at the University of Washington, and while I hate to define anyone using stereotypes, they are everything you might expect math professors to be.

They love classical music. They do crossword puzzles.

Their after-dinner activity is to drink a glass of wine while trying to stump each other with calculus problems.

They do not have any tattoos, nor do they care for mine.

They wear a lot of sweaters and a lot of corduroy and shirts buttoned all the way to the collar.

They don’t yell. They rarely get upset. They never bark at the television during a sporting event or do anything but applaud politely at concerts.

After years of believing they would never have children, I was a surprise, born three days before my mother’s forty-first birthday, followed by my little brother, Harold, who was born two years later. They gave us everything they could with a practical, methodical approach to their parenting.

Even when I wanted to fly to Nashville and audition for Midnight Rush, they treated it like an equation, measuring what they called my natural aptitude against the potential risks. Lucky for me, when they solved for x, it equaled a trip to try for the future I knew I was destined to have.

Honestly, when I got the gig and moved to Nashville full-time, living with a host family until I turned eighteen, I think my parents were relieved to have my very noisy presence out of the house.

Harold is a much better fit for their personality. He’s also a mathematician, currently working on his PhD, and he has a closet full of sweater vests and a cabinet full of quiz bowl ribbons and chess trophies.

That sort of thing is much more their speed. Not stadium concerts full of screaming fans and music they once said seemed “much too loud.”

I pull on a pair of pajama bottoms, though by this point, it almost feels stupid to sleep when I only have a couple hours before I need to be awake again.

I check my phone one last time and find a new text message, this one from Ivy.

Ivy

Hey, just wanted to give you a heads-up that as soon as we’re back in Nashville, I think I’m going to get my own place.

Nothing will change about work. I’ll still be close by.

But I’d like to set a regular work schedule so I can occasionally have some non-working hours too.

We can talk details once we’re home. I just wanted you to know I’m thinking about it so you don’t freak out if you see me hunting for apartments.

I read the text all the way through three times before I sink onto the edge of my bed.

There is nothing about this message that should upset me.

I’m well aware how lucky I am to have Ivy.

She’s a logistical genius, managing every aspect of my life with enviable precision, and she’s become a really close friend.

It’s been amazing having her live with me, and not just because it means she’s always around when I need her. I also really like her company.

I wrack my brain for anything that’s happened in the past few weeks that might have prompted her decision. I know I frustrated her tonight, but not enough to have triggered something like this. It was just normal stuff. And she was fine when we said good night.

But am I missing something? Did I inadvertently offend her in some way? Hurt her feelings? Take advantage?

I wince at that last question, all too aware that the answer might be yes simply because she does live with me. But I pay Ivy well. And my house is enormous. It’s not like we’re sharing a bathroom. She has her own entrance, and she’s living rent free.

It’s hard for me to wrap my head around her wanting her own place when she already has such a sweet setup.

Without really thinking about what I’m doing, I stand and open my bedroom door, tiptoeing down the narrow hallway to Ivy’s bunk. Wayne and Seth are on the right side of the narrow hall, but Ivy sleeps on the left side alone.

I yank back the privacy curtain of the upper bunk, and she jumps, her phone flying into the air before it lands back on her blankets with a thump. The height of her bunk makes us eye level.

“What is this about?” I say, holding up my phone.

She rolls her eyes. “Seriously, Freddie? You just scared me half to death. What if I’d been naked?” Her eyes drop to my bare chest, and her cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink, just visible in the dim light of her bunk.

“Why would you be naked?” I ask.

“Maybe I sleep naked,” she says. “Some people do. The point is, just because I don’t have a door doesn’t mean you don’t have to knock.”