Twenty

Whose Jersey Is Bigger

 

 

The smell of popcorn and French fries filtered through the air of Petit Soho. Disco lights, a kaleidoscope of ruby reds and sapphire blues chased each other across the polished mahogany bar, bouncing off the vintage photos plastered on the walls. 

 

The bar, which was usually a haven for the neighborhood locals seeking a friendly drink and live music, had been transformed into a fortress of teenage revelry, sealing off the outside world for Jesse’s birthday.

 

Three massive flat-screen TVs, typically reserved for sports, now glowed with pixelated athletes from the latest version of Madden Football, and the dizzying loops of Mario Kart. A chorus of triumphant shouts and frustrated groans erupted from the cluster of kids huddled around them.

 

Further back, on the small stage, a karaoke machine pulsed with multicolored light. Its screen flashed the lyrics to an early 2000s pop anthem as Stephanine, Romeo, and Desiree belted the chorus to an audience of one — Lily, who was slowly navigating the dance floor in a kiddie car shaped walker, courtesy of Max.

 

Just off the dining room, tucked away in a dimly lit alcove, the serious business of poker was underway. A trio of players — Tico, Max and John Sr. — sat hunched over cards and chips, their expressions all focus and no nonsense. 

 

Jon stood near the entrance, leaning against the cool metal of the vintage KISS pinball machine, a half-empty glass of wine in his hand. From here, he had the perfect vantage point to watch her in her element.

 

Ari and Jesse were locked in a no-holds-barred game of football, and judging by his son’s groans, she was winning — again.

 

He watched them, a warm glow spreading in his chest. She was a force of nature. Everything–the décor, the energy, the sheer fun of it all–had her fingerprints all over it.  Seeing the joy, she brought to Jesse and his friends? That hit him right in the feels.

 

Just a year ago, none of this had seemed possible. And yet, here they were. A real family. Imperfect, loud, chaotic… and absolutely his.

 

Ari whooped as the screen flashed Victory.

 

“Not again!” Jesse groaned, dropping his head back dramatically against the chairs. 

 

She grinned, breathless from laughing, and handed him the controller. “There’s always next time.”

 

As she stood and turned, she caught sight of Jon watching her. His laughing smile and shake of his head made her shrug as she made her way over to him.

 

“What’s so funny?” she asked, crossing her arms.

 

“You ever gonna let him win?”

 

“Nope.” she shot back with a grin.

 

He chuckled, then tilted his head, eyes sweeping the room before settling back on her. “You pulled this off.”

 

“We both did.”

 

Jon reached for her hand, his fingers curling around hers. “Yeah, but it only works ’cause of you.”

 

She smirked, raising an eyebrow. “How much wine have you had?”

 

“Enough to wanna sneak upstairs for a quickie.” 

 

“Down boy,” she patted his cheek. “Your mother’s heading this way.”

 

Jon recoiled, like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

 

“Ari, sweetheart,” Carol said, ignoring her son entirely, “you’ve been running around for hours. Come sit, eat something.”

 

Ari smiled, her shoulders relaxing as she caught Carol’s gaze. She knew better than to argue with her mother-in-law. “Yes, Carol.”

 

Carol shot Jon a look as she turned to lead Ari away. “And you—stop loitering like a lovesick teenager.”

 

Jon raised his glass in mock salute. “Yes, Ma.”

 

Ari accepted her mother-in-law’s arm without protest, more out of affection than necessity. Carol had a habit of fussing, and resisting only made her double down. Jon walked a few steps behind, clearly amused but wise enough not to say a word. 

 

As they reached the table, Carol stopped. “Ari, sit. I’ll fix you a plate.”

 

“You really don’t have to—”

 

“Sit,” Carol cut her off, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. “Tell me what you want.”

 

“Just two sliders and some fries, please. And thank you.”

 

Jon gestured toward the long table where Matt, Lema, Nicole and Cliff were in the middle of some heated conversation, laughter filling the air. 

 

“Come on,” he said, gently guiding her by the elbow. “Let’s go soak up some adult company.”

 

“Well, well, look who finally decided to join the party.” Matt teased, grinning like a cat who’d gotten into the cream.

 

Jon ignored his brother as he pulled out a chair next to Nicole for his wife.  “Ari couldn’t resist a little football competition with the teenagers.”

 

Ari rolled her eyes playfully. “Someone has to show them how it’s done.”

 

Matt’s eyes lit up. “Speaking of that,” he leaned forward, looking between her and Nicole, “When are you two going to get up there and reenact your legendary London performance?”

 

Nicole nearly choked on her drink, her face instantly going red. “Count me out.”

 

“Oh, come on, Nic! That was an epic night.”

 

Nicole shook her head. “More like a one-time, alcohol-fueled bad judgment.”

 

Lema, who’d sipping his drink with quiet amusement, let out a snort.  “I heard that story. Really sorry I missed it.”

 

Cliff, who usually stayed in the background, cracked a smile, clearly fighting back laugher.

 

Jon leaned back, a wicked grin on his face. “I was there and wouldn’t object to a repeat performance.”

 

Just then, Desiree and Stephanie, flushed with their karaoke triumph, approached the table. 

 

“What’s all this hushed giggling about?” Stephanine asked, looking between the group like she’d caught them gossiping.

 

“We’re discussing Ari and the Doc’s London karaoke debut.” Matt chimed in.

 

“Wait. Why haven’t I heard this story?” Desiree asked, pulling the empty chair next to her husband.

 

Nicole made a low moan that was barely audible above the buzz of the bar. “Not sure this is a story for polite company.”

 

“Oh, it’s a story for all company.” Lema countered.

 

Matt’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Gather ‘round folks. I’m about to tell you a tale,” he paused for dramatic effect. “It was last year, when we were in London for a month…”

 

Stephanie interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “Hold up. I was in London too.” 

 

Jon patted Stephanie’s hand affectionately and continued. “This was before you kids got there. Your uncles and I were flying back after the show in Netherlands.” He grinned, glancing over at Cliff. “And he was in charge.”

 

Cliff, who had been quietly listening, held up his hands. “In my defense, it was only my third day.”

 

Matt laughed. “We warned you, didn’t we?”

 

“Alright, enough with the Cliff-bashing.” Ari cut in. “It was Nicole’s first time in London, and Cara and I wanted to show her the town.”

 

“Oh shit, I forgot about Cara.”  Matt said, throwing his head back for a hearty laugh at the all-new thread of unleashed memories.  

 

“Anyways,” Ari continued before her brother-in-law could go off on one of the embarrassing tangents that he enjoyed.  “We spent the day and evening hitting all the usual tourist spots.  Big Ben, the Eye, Tower Bridge, Abbey Road and that infamous roundabout from every movie ever made.”

 

“Ah, yes, Piccadilly Circus,” Nicole supplied with a crooked smirk. “Where the great cultural experience ended because someone couldn’t hold it anymore”.

 

“Hey,” Ari clapped back at her doctor-slash-friend in mock defensiveness. “I had to pee!  Can I help it if Waxy’s was the closest place open?  I don’t make the rules in that country.”

 

“And that,” Matt informed those who hadn’t been there on that memorable night, “is where the real fun began.”

 

He leaned forward to share the story with the dramatic eagerness of a gossiping teenage girl that had Jon’s eyes rolling. 

 

“We landed, and when I powered on my phone there was a text from Cliff saying, and I quote, ‘Your sister-in-law and her sidekicks are on stage at Waxy O’Connor’s singing like they own the place.’  Well, that was too good to pass up.  I had to see this shit in person, so we sent the band back to the hotel while I told this old man,” Matt’s thumb jerked in Jon’s direction with a grin that grew ever-wider.  “We’re making a detour.”   

 

“Don’t forget the hat,” Ari interjected, undoubtedly deciding if she was going to get roasted by little brother then Jon was going down with her.  

 

Matt laughed. “Oh right! Matt laughed.  “I made him wear his beat-up Elmer Fudd looking thing. Said we didn’t need to get mobbed by while crashing a bar at two a.m.”

 

 “Can you quit with the dramatics and just get to the point?” Jon groaned.

 

“Alright, alright,” Matt grinned. “By the time your father and I made it inside Lita Ford and The Runawayswannabees were up on stage, living out their rockstar fantasy.”

 

Nicole’s face flushed. “And, like I’ve said, LOTS of alcohol was involved.”

 

Ari waved her hand innocently. “Um. I was sober. Baby on board, remember?”

 

“What were you singing?” Stephanie asked, leaning forward.

 

Jon laughed. “Pat Benatar’s ‘Heartbreaker’. And I’m not talking a mellow karaoke moment–this was full-volume, a little off-key passion, complete with air guitar and dramatic finger pointing.”

 

Ari shot him a lover over her glass. “Mmm-hmm. And if my memory serves, you were drooling like a groupie.”

 

Desiree and Stephanie burst into peals of laughter, their faces red.

 

“Oh, my God! I wish I had been there!” Stephanie said, wiping a tear from her eye. “Although… watching Dad fangirl is already enough mental trauma for one lifetime.”

 

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Careful, kid. I still pay for your phone plan.”

 

Grinning, she shot back, “And I’ll use it to send that video to the entire family group chat–if I ever find it.”

 

Matt snorted. “Enough with the who’s Jersey is bigger contest.” He raised his glass. “To the London legends! May their voices grace the microphones again tonight.”

 

“Don’t count on it.” Nicole said firmly.

 

“Aw, c’mon Nic. Admit it, it was a fun night.”

 

Nicole took a dramatic sip of her drink before leaning back with a smirk. “I plead the fifth!”

These Five Words

Before there was a song, there was silence. This biscuit finds Jon, years after Ari's goodbye holding the letter she left behind—and finally writing the melody she could never say out loud.

Red Bank, New Jersey

Sanctuary Sound Studios

1999

 

It had been five years since These Days—a lifetime by industry standards. The time apart had given the band room to breathe, to chase their own projects and private distractions, but now the tide was shifting. Quietly, almost tentatively, they were beginning to lay the first stones of what would become their seventh studio album.

There was no title yet. No grand vision. Just scraps—scribbled phrases in the margins of notebooks, melodies hummed into a phone at 2 a.m., and a handful of tentative studio dates penciled into the calendar with more hope than certainty.

Jon needed the calm before the storm. The silence that came before sound. That rare, suspended space where songs first began to whisper.

The studio was exactly as he liked it before a writing session: still, stripped bare, free of distraction. His guitar rested nearby, waiting. A few battered notebooks sat stacked on the desk like old friends, their edges curling with time. Outside, the world pressed faintly at the windows, its low hum reminding him that life went on out there, even as he closed himself in here.

He wasn’t looking for ghosts. But they always had a way of finding him.

His hand hovered before settling on a worn, leather-bound notebook, one of many tucked away on a shelf in his home studio. Dust clung stubbornly to the cover, but the weight of it was familiar, grounding. He eased it open, pages whispering against one another as though reluctant to give up their secrets.

Lyrics. Fragments. Thoughts that had once mattered enough to jot down but never made it into song. Half-finished lines that broke off mid-idea, trails leading nowhere. He turned the pages slowly, deliberately—like a man pacing himself through a memory he wasn’t sure he wanted to revisit. Every line carried the risk of cutting deeper than he intended, the kind of slow reckoning that only comes when you’re searching for beginnings and stumble into pieces of yourself you’d left behind.

Then it fell loose—

A folded piece of hotel stationery, yellowed at the edges, tucked between the lyrics of something he’d never finished.

His fingers froze.

He knew what it was before he even opened it. He remembered the weight of the morning sun spilling into their hotel room in Montreal, the air still warm with her scent—soft, familiar. The mattress where she’d been sleeping—cold. The silence that screamed louder than any goodbye. And that letter, left on her pillow.

He’d kept it. Moved it from city to city, album to album, tucked into whatever notebook he happened to be working in at the time. But he hadn’t read it in years. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

He unfolded it carefully, the ink faded but legible.

He didn’t expect the wave that hit him.

The memory was so sharp, it sliced through the years in an instant—October 1996, cold and sterile, the beeping of hospital machines, the weight of Ari in his arms as she let her father slip away. Her cries. Her breaking.

And now, with the letter in his hands again, each word pulled him back. He’d dropped everything to be there. Of course he had. There was never a question.

But reading it now, years later, with the grief somewhat faded and the world a little quieter, he saw it differently.

He saw her differently, too.

The girl who had pushed him away to protect what was left of her heart… and the woman who had somehow said everything in a single page she hadn’t been able to say out loud.

He had tried to write a dozen songs about that time. For her. About her. The way she’d fallen apart in his arms and then vanished in the night. But none of them felt like enough.

None of them had said what he needed to say.

Until now.

He swallowed hard.

Maybe it was already there—hidden between her lines and his silence. A song she’d begun, and he was only just learning how to finish.

“Thank You For Loving Me.”

She had written it first. In her own way. With her own pain. Her truth folded up and left on a pillow, asking for nothing in return.

And he’d carried it with him all along, even without knowing.

Setting the notebook aside, he stood and walked over to the piano. Gently, he smoothed the fold, as if the paper might bruise. His fingers hovered, then moved over the keys—soft at first, uncertain. Just feeling.

A chord. Then another. Searching. Testing. Remembering.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, letting memory and music blur together. Time folded in on itself—Montreal, the hospital, the funeral, her broken voice, the absence that hollowed out the room.

All of it was here, echoing through the studio with every note.

Then the melody was just… there—soft, simple, steady. As if it had always belonged to her.

His fingers stilled, landing on the shape of something true.

His voice, low and rough from disuse, found the opening lines without effort.

It’s hard for me to say the things I want to say sometimes…

Without thinking, he stood, crossed the room, and grabbed a yellow legal pad from the edge of the console desk. He tore off the top sheet—some scribbled notes from last week—and dropped back onto the piano bench. Pen in hand.

He didn’t need to invent the words. She’d already given them to him.

He started writing, fast at first, just getting it down—lines from the letter, memories of her voice, her eyes, the way she’d looked that night in the hospital hallway, hollowed out but still holding on.

Thank you for loving me…
For being my strength…
For seeing through my darkness…

He paused, pen hovering, eyes flicking back to the letter. One line pulled at him harder than the rest.

“Once again, it’s just you and me, locked away from the world outside.”

A breath left his chest. That was them. Always closing the door on everything but each other.

He murmured the words aloud, as if testing how they tasted after all these years.

“Just you and me… locked away from the world…”

He scribbled the first part out. Too close to something else he’d written for her. Those words were his. Reassuring her that he’d always be there.

This was her song.

A spark caught. He scribbled down quickly:

There’s no one here but you and me
And that broken old street light
Lock the doors
We’ll leave the world outside.

He played the chords under his breath, shaping and phrasing, humming until the lyrics found their rhythm. It was rough. But it was right.

It wasn’t just a song anymore.

It was her.
It was them.

He didn’t hear the door open over the soft thrum of the piano.

“Morning, Sunshine.”

Jon glanced up, startled. Richie stood in the doorway, coffee in one hand, guitar case in the other, squinting at him like he’d walked in on something private.

“What’cha got?” Richie asked, nodding toward the legal pad—and then catching sight of the folded, yellowed piece of stationery resting just above the keys.

Jon’s hand moved reflexively, sliding the letter aside with care. “Just… something I’m messing with.”

Richie stepped in and set his coffee down on the edge of the console. He didn’t press. Just glanced around the quiet studio and back at Jon.

“Working on it since when? Last night?”

“Early,” Jon said, noncommittal.

Richie raised an eyebrow, listening as Jon tapped a few soft notes.

“Sounds like a love song.”

Jon gave a quiet half-smile. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Richie smirked. “I don’t need the whole Lifetime movie backstory. Just play me what you got.”

Jon huffed out a quiet breath. “It’s not finished.”

“Never is,” Richie said, sliding the guitar case to the floor. “Let’s hear it anyway.”

They settled into an easy rhythm after that. Jon at the piano, Richie with his guitar, tossing lines back and forth like they had a hundred times before. The bones of something lasting began to rise out of the quiet.

As the morning stretched on, chords tightened, verses shifted, and the melody found its footing. What started as a whisper was now shaping into something real. Not just for this song—others too. Ideas that had been circling for months finally had a place to land.

Still, Jon kept the yellowed piece of paper nearby like a quiet witness. Its edges curled, ink fading—but her voice still lived inside it.

When Richie left, Jon lingered at the piano, the quiet settling back into the studio like a soft breath. He let his fingers hover over the keys, then slowly pressed the opening notes they’d come up with—soft, tentative, but full of everything.

He glanced down at the letter resting beside the keys. The weight of those words no longer just a memory, but a living thread tying them together across time.

She hadn’t run because she didn’t love him. She’d left because she did—and couldn’t bear the weight of one more goodbye she’d have to survive.

And still, she’d left the door cracked open behind her. Just enough for him to find his way back in.

And he always had. Even when she didn’t ask him to.

This time, as he played the melody, it lingered—gentle, alive.

She was in it.
Not fading. Not gone.
Just… there.

Thank you for loving me
For being my eyes
When I couldn’t see
You parted my lips
When I couldn’t breathe
Thank you for loving me.

Maybe she would never hear it. Maybe she would never know.

But somewhere in this song, she would always be.

Jon let the last chord fade into the stillness, his fingers hovering above the keys as though reluctant to let go. The letter rested just beside them, edges curled, its ink dimmed by time, but its voice—her voice—still alive, still speaking.

He exhaled slowly, the weight in his chest shifting from burden to anchor. The studio around him was quiet again, but it no longer felt empty.

The melody lingered in the air, soft and steady.

She was here.
In the silence.
In the song.
And in him.

 

Nineteen

 

This Moment Here With You

 

 

Sunlight filtered through the half-closed blinds, painting the familiar space in shades of silver and shadow. A soft hum vibrated in the room—a low, contented sound that emanate from his chest as he lay beside her, one arm flung over his head, the other resting across his stomach.

 

Lying on her side, head nestled into the pillow, she watched him. 

 

She loved watching his sleep. Had for years. If anyone ever asked what her favorite pastime was, she’d say this. The reason had changed over time — sometimes to capture a fleeting moment, to memorize the way his chest rose and fell, or to smile at the small grins that bloomed from whatever he was dreaming about. Sometimes it was the sound of her name, murmured unconsciously, or the soft mews he made in deeper sleep.

 

But through it all, one thing had remained true—she loved him. Always.

 

With slow indulgence, she traced a lazy finger along the exposed curve of his bicep and the soft dip of his underarm, all smooth muscle and unguarded warmth. Her touch wondered down the line of his forearm, then back up over the ridge of his bicep, gliding through the fine dusting of hair, and into the hollow where his arm met his chest.  

 

A subtle shift of muscle, a soft exhale, he stirred beneath her touch, and then, without lifting his head, he cracked one eye open.

 

Caught.

 

A slow, lopsided smile curved his lips, sleep still tugging at the corners of his expression.

 

“Watching me again?” he murmured, voice rough with sleep and something sweeter. Something only for her.

 

“Always.”

 

He rolled onto his said to face her, “Admiring or planning you next attack?”

 

“Admiring and thinking.”

 

“About what?” he asked, reaching up to tuck a loos tendril of hair behind her ear.

 

“Hiring a nanny.”

 

He’d been wondering when she’d bring it up. Thanks to his brother, he already knew she’d been talking with his sister-in-law. Not that he ever doubted she’d see the need—it was just a matter of her coming to terms with it in her own time.

 

“Can I ask why now?”

 

“A million reason,” she said softly. “Being sick. Relying on Stephanie so much the last few days. And honestly? I’m not keeping up with work the way I should,” she sighed. “I don’t know how Sal did.”

 

“You can’t compare yourself to your father,” he said gently. “He had Lili and Mathis, which made a huge difference in those early years. And when you were old enough to travel with him, he had a crew full of uncles who always lent a hand.”

 

“True.”

 

“I can ask Jeanie to compile a list of reputable agencies and when we’re back in New Jersey on Tuesday we can start making some calls.”

 

“No. I’m not hiring a stranger,” she said firmly.  “I’ve been talking to Desiree about it, and she has a family friend who’s interested in the job.”

 

“Okay. Then we’ll set up a time to meet her when we’re back home.”

 

“That’s another thing I was contemplating—going home later today with your parents and the kids.”

 

“Really?”

 

“I was… until Des offered to take Lily for a couple of days.”

 

His eyes went wide as a mischievous grin spread across his lips.

 

“Oh? So just you and me, no kids, no parents…” he shifted closer, his voice dropping low. “Sounds like the start of a very inappropriate few nights.”

 

Before she could reply, he leaned in and gently eased her onto her back, his hand sliding behind her neck as he hovered over her. That grin of his—lazy and wicked spread wider.

 

“Well,” he murmured, brushing is lips just short of her, “no time like the present to get the party started.”

 

“We should really get up and check on the kids.”

 

“Nah, Ma’s got them all under control,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Perfect time for my revenge.”

 

“Revenge?” her eyebrows arched in mock surprise. “For what?”

 

“For…” he declared, his eyes sweeping over her. “For using me like a Kentucky Derby winner the other day. You think I forgot about that.” His grin turned downright sinful. “It’s time to settle the score, sweetheart, and I’ve got a couple nights to do it.”

 

Without another word, he shifted, gently pressing her back into the pillows, her head sinking into their downy softness. Her worn Stones shirt— a testament to the countless washes and years of love – rode up further to expose her navel and the smooth expanse of her swollen stomach. His gaze lingered there for a moment, something tender flickering behind the heat in his eyes, before his fingers, nimble and sure found the hem of the shirt and began to ease it upwards.

 

The soft cotton glided over her skin, brushing against her ribs, her chest, her shoulders. She lifted her arms, helping him. The shirt slipped free, tossed carelessly to the floor, joining her growing pile of discarded clothes. The sunlight now seeping through the window bathed her in its soft glow, highlighting the delicate curve of her collarbone and the fullness of her breasts. 

 

He leaned over her, blue eyes dark and hungry fixed on her likes she was the only thing that existed. He didn’t rush. Didn’t hurry. He just looked. Then slowly, deliberately, he lowered his head.  

 

Warm, soft lips found the hollow of throat just beneath her chin. A shiver ran through her, a delicious tremor that started deep in her core and spread outwards.

 

“Mmm…” she sighed, her breath catching in her throat as his kisses trailed lower, down the curve of her neck, past the pulsing hollow her collar bone.  

 

His mouth moved with reverence, unhurried, as if memorizing her one kiss at a time. She felt the graze of his stubble against her skin, just enough to send a fresh wave of shivers down her spine.  Her fingers threaded through his hair, not guiding, just anchoring. 

 

He looked up at her, eyes dark and gleaming, his voice a whisper against her skin as he met her green eyes. “Still think we should get up and check on the kids?”

 

Her laugh was soft, breathless, but the answer was clear in the way she arched toward him, in the way her leges shifted beneath his.

 

“Not a chance,” she murmured. 

 

He chuckled, a low, satisfied sound. “Thought so.”

 

His tongue traced the lines of her body with precision. Each touch a spark, igniting a fire that spread rapidly through her veins.  Her fingers pulling him closer.

 

“Jon…” she breathed, her voice a ragged whisper.

 

“You like that?” he murmured, his voiced muffled against her skin.

 

She couldn’t speak, only nodding, her fingers clutching his hair. Her body was a symphony of sensations, each note played by his lips, his tongue, his breath. He moved lower still, kisses trailing past the curve of her hip, to the inner curve of her thigh. Instinctively, her legs parted. A silent offering, an unspoken invitation.

 

“Please,” she whispered.

 

“You’re cute when you beg—but I’m just getting warmed up.”

 

She let out a breathy laugh, equal parts frustration and desire. “You’re evil,” she breathed. 

 

He smirked against her skin, his fingers grazing the inside of her thigh but going no further.

 

“Oh, baby,” he drawled, his breath warm against her, “you haven’t even seen what evil looks like.”

 

She squirmed beneath him, hips lifting, seeking more.

 

“Just fuck me already!”

 

A slow smile spread across his face. “As you wish.”

 

In one fluid motion, he position himself between her legs. Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, he pressed deeper until he was buried deep inside her.

 

She gasped, her body clenching around him.

 

He began to move, slowly at first, then faster, his hips pumping against hers. She met his thrust, her body moving in rhythm with his.

 

Long legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer. Nails clawed his back, while love bites nipped at his skin. 

 

His breath hitched as the heat between them deepened, every touch sparking fire beneath their skin.

 

She arched into him, a soft moan escaping her lips as their bodies moved in sync.

 

“Faster,” she begged, her voice a desperate plea.

 

He obliged, his movement growing more urgent, more instant. The bedsprings groaned their protest beneath them, a rhythmic thump accompanying ever motion.

 

“Yes.” She moaned.

 

She was so close, her body vibrating with anticipation. The rising tide of pleasure threating to consumer her. 

 

His hands held her close, steadying her as the waves of pleasure finally broke, washing through them both in a shared moment of surrender.  Their breaths mingled, slow and deep, hearts beating in quiet harmony.

 

He smirked. “Now we better get going before someone comes looking for us.”

 

She rolled her eyes, a sly grin tugging at her lips. “That’s on you. I need a shower after that.”

 

Before he could protest, she gently pushed him off and dashed toward the bathroom, laughter trailing behind her. 

Eighteen

 

Baby Names and Back Up Plans

 

Cliff was already waiting at the curb when they stepped out of the building, the car idling behind him. He stood by the open door, one arm slung casually across the top. Ari gave him a small nod as she and Jon slid into the back seat, her fingers slipping from his so they could get in easily.

 

Ari’s phone buzzed with a message from Max, asking about details for Jesse’s birthday party on Sunday. Instead of calling, she fired off a quick reply, letting him know she was on her way.

 

“I need to stop by Petit Soho before we head to the arena,” she said as they pulled into traffic.

 

“Everything okay?” Jon asked.

 

“Yes. Max wanted to go over some things for Sunday, and I figured we could grab a quiet lunch before all the fun starts. Might be the only calm moment we get.”

 

“Smart thinking.” He took her hand. “Cliff, you heard the boss—Petit Soho it is.”

 

Petit Soho was already buzzing when they arrived—a typical Friday lunch crowd, scattered laughter, clinking glasses, and the hum of conversation rising over the jukebox. Cliff peeled off toward the bar to grab a quick bite, slipping into his usual corner seat with a nod to one of the bartenders.

 

Jon gave her hand a light squeeze. “I’ll grab us a table,” he said, already scanning the room. “I’ll check on the gang’s ETA too, see if Gunnar made it to the arena with Steph and Lily.”

 

She offered him a grateful smile and slipped toward the back, disappearing behind the swinging doors to the office. Max was already waiting, half-distracted with a clipboard and a long to-do list running through his head. They walked through the final notes for Sunday’s party: the bar would be closed to the public until dinner, but everything else was set. Gabriel had the food locked down—burgers, wings, sandwiches, popcorn, candy, birthday cake, and enough ice cream to start a small war among the kids. The karaoke setup had been tested twice.

 

Satisfied, Ari rejoined Jon at a quite two-top near the front window, tucked slightly out of the way. Lunch was easy—comfortable conversation over shared fries, a rare calm before the inevitable chaos of family, parties, and everything in between. By the time they stood to leave for the arena, the hum of the restaurant had faded into the background, and for just a moment, it felt like the world had slowed down—for now.

 

By the time they reached the Bell Centre, the place was already alive. Staff crisscrossed the backstage hallways, radios crackling. Craft services buzzed with familiar faces.

 

Romeo was darting between tables, half-covered in donut powder, while Jake held Lily in his lap, making silly faces at her. Matt leaned against the table, chatting with Steph and his parents.

 

“Hey,” Jon called out as they approached.

 

“Ari! Ari!” Romeo came running, face flushed with excitement. “Where’s Meatball?”

 

Ari smiled, crouching to meet his eyes. “He’s back at the loft.”

 

“The loft?” Romeo asked, puzzled.

 

“Yep. We figured you’d rather stay there than in some boring hotel.”

 

Romeo’s whole face lit up. “Yes!” He pumped his fist in the air. “Oh, hi, Dad,” he added over his shoulder before bouncing back toward the snack tables.

 

Jon’s parents stood as Ari approached, their smiles warm and welcoming.

 

“Ari, sweetheart,” Carol said, pulling her into a quick hug. “You look tired—but in a good way. How did everything go today?”

 

“Good. Now we wait,” Ari said simply, with a small smile.

 

“Hey, Pop-pop, ask Dad what he wants to name the baby,” Stephanie said to her grandfather, mischief in her eyes.

 

“You know what you’re having?” he asked, turning back to Ari and Jon.

 

“No. But your son thinks he does.”

 

“Diesel,” Steph called out. “He wants to name him Diesel.”

 

“Good Lord, Jon.” Carol shook her head as she returned to her seat. “You cannot name my grandchild after petroleum oil.”

 

“That’s what we said,” Steph and Ari replied in unison.

 

“Why don’t we hold off on names until we know what we’re having,” Ari muttered.

 

“Did someone mention baby names?” Lema appeared at the door with Richie.

 

“Y’know, Richard is a great name,” Richie offered, grinning.

 

Lema biffed him in the back of the head. “That’s a horrible name for a baby.”

 

“Okay, fine. What would you name him, then?”

 

Lema crossed his arms, pretending to think seriously. “Amadeus.”

 

Ari snorted. “Please stop.”

 

“Oh, come on. Amadeus Bongiovi! That kid would never get picked last for anything.”

 

“Except therapy appointments,” Jon muttered.

 

Richie laughed. “Honestly? I kinda like it.”

 

“You would,” Steph said.

 

The radio crackled to life. “If you losers are done, we’re ready for soundcheck,” Obie’s voice came over the line.

 

Jon leaned in to give Ari a quick kiss. “No funny stuff tonight.” He winked.

 

“Promise.”

 

As the guys headed toward the stage, Carol clapped her hands lightly. “Alright, who’s coming with us to the playroom?”

 

Romeo and Lily both perked up. Lily giggled as Jake stood, and Romeo grabbed a bag of chips for the road. Ari watched them go with a smile, then sank into one of the now-empty chairs next to Desiree.

 

“Are your kids here?” she asked.

 

“No. Rocco was a little cranky, so I left them with my mom.”

 

“Poor thing. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

 

“Nah, he’s cutting his molars.”

 

“Ah, not fun. I think Lily’s working on her bottom ones.”

 

“Rub a little whiskey on her gums—it works better than any gel out there. My mom did it with all of us.”

 

Ari laughed. “Carol told me the exact same thing.”

 

“Old school mamas—they have all the tricks.” Desiree reached for her water. “How have you been, really?”

 

“I’m good. Well, now that the damn PICC line is gone. Eating more every day. I’m not rushing it—don’t want to jinx anything.”

 

“I bet. Despite all you’ve been through, you look great.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“I’m serious. I wish I looked as good as you do when I was pregnant.”

 

“I’m sure you did. You might not have felt it—sometimes I don’t either.”

 

“Agree to disagree.” Desiree’s phone buzzed, and she glanced at the screen. “Wanna go check on the chaos?” she asked, standing.

 

“Sure,” Ari said, pushing herself up carefully. “Then we can hang in Jon’s dressing room.”

 

They wandered out to check on the grown-ups and kids, eventually ending up in Jon’s dressing room. Ari could hear the band starting to run through the first chords of the setlist—the faint thump of the bass and scattered guitar seeping through the walls. The rhythm was uneven, occasionally punctuated by feedback or a frustrated shout from the crew. Every few minutes, Ari had to fight the urge to reply to Kennedy’s voice on the radio or get up to fix something.

 

But she promised Jon she’d stay put tonight.

 

Doctor’s orders: No stress, no standing too long, and definitely no working for at least twenty-four hours.

 

She could do that.

 

Probably.

 

Desiree sat in the oversized chair, scrolling through her phone with one leg tucked under her, oblivious to Ari’s internal struggle. A text pinged, and she grinned at her sister-in-law.

 

“I think I found your nanny.”

 

“Really?” Ari looked up from her laptop.

 

“Yup. My mom’s best friend’s sister is having a full-blown existential crisis.”

 

“Uh, not sure I want a nanny with baggage.”

 

“No baggage, I swear. She’s in her mid-fifties, both kids out of the house, and last year her husband decided he needed to ‘find himself’ in Tulum with his twenty-something receptionist.”

 

“Wow. That’s—”

 

“A lot, I know. But she has her life together. She owns the yoga studio in Shrewsbury Plaza, got a decent divorce settlement, and now she wants something that doesn’t involve Lululemon and downward dog.”

 

Ari laughed, shaking her head. “And you told her exactly what she’d be doing? On the road, a different city every day, living out of hotels, wrangling a baby, a dog, and occasionally four other children?”

 

“Sure did. She’s very interested.”

 

“And you know this woman?”

 

“Yes. My mom and her sister have been best friends since high school. She’s been to plenty of family stuff—holidays, birthdays, all that.”

 

Ari leaned her head back, thinking. Outside, the guitar riff started over for the third time, followed by an audible groan through the monitors.

 

Sighing, she rubbed her temples. “Sorry.”

 

“It’s killing you, isn’t it? Not being out there.”

 

“That obvious?”

 

Desiree laughed. “Yeah. I saw you twitch during the bridge.”

 

“I promised Jon I’d stay put. I bet Cliff is even lingering in the hall, waiting to see if I try to sneak out.”

 

“So, should I set up a meeting between you and Gloria when you’re back in New Jersey?”

 

“Let me think about it.”

 

The door creaked open, and Jon stepped inside, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, phone in hand.

 

“Think about what?”

 

“Oh, nothing,” Ari said quickly.

 

“Hmm. Yeah, if you say so.” He crossed the room and sat beside her on the couch.

 

“Why aren’t you at soundcheck?”

 

“It’s over. That’s Richie working with his tech on a new guitar. Where are the rest of the gremlins?”

 

“Last we checked, your parents had them all in the game room Jeanie set up in the visitors’ locker room.”

 

“How’d she pull that off?”

 

“The Moretti name holds a lot of clout in this arena.”

 

“There you go bragging again.”

 

Desiree stood and stretched. “Alright, I’m going to go find Matt before the show starts.”

 

“Good luck,” Jon called after her.

 

Ari leaned into his side, resting her head on his shoulder as the hallway noise faded.

 

She didn’t need to fix anything right now. She just needed this.