With my signature mix of laid-back pop and soul, Solstice in the ’92 was supposed to be my ticket to the top of the charts. Thirteen songs I’d poured my heart and soul into, each one representing a different stage in my life from growing up without a dad to my party days as a bachelor, all the way to the birth of my daughter. They were bold. They were raw. They were Eason Maxwell. Selling them off was going to feel like being ripped limb from limb.
But they would pay the bills.
Maybe even permanently bring back the light in my wife’s eyes, the spark in our marriage, and allow me to keep my family together. There was nothing I wouldn’t sacrifice—hopes and dreams included—to be the man Jessica and Luna deserved.
For that reason alone, I managed a smile as I stared down at her. “It’s the right thing to do, babe. For you. For Luna. Hell, maybe even for me. A fresh start can’t hurt, right?”
She circled her arms around my neck—the first physical contact she’d initiated in weeks.