CHAPTER 57 (2)

Patient. Easygoing. Flexible. But it’s easy to forget your parents’ pluses.” Like that my dad cares about family way more than money. The band plays Sinatra, and Timothy glances toward the half-full dance floor. He shifts so the railing is at his back, the soft lights playing over his handsome features. “I want to ask you to dance. But if we do, everyone in here is going to know we’re together. They’ll be like, ‘Who’s that handsome asshole with Emily Carlton?’” I throw my head back and laugh. “No, they’ll be like ‘Who’s that bitch with Timothy Adams?’” He shakes his head. “He’s probably in love with her,” he continues in a mimicking voice. I snort champagne up my nose, and the bubbles sting. “He’s probably using her to get to Eddie,” I say in the same gossipy tone, searching out my dad and Shane on instinct. “Except we know the truth.” I arch a brow, waiting. “Her dad’s not the prize. It’s always been her.” My body tingles. He’s watching me intently, intensely. We’re standing on the edge of the world, and it has nothing to do with the balcony or the view or the people. My heart’s telling me this moment is right—he’s right. That in all the times I lost faith, I always came back to him. I love him. Not then. Now. Always. Timothy’s the dream I never gave up on, and I never want to leave his side. I thought my dream was this musical—it was the final way to cement my belonging in this industry in a way that felt right to me. But I know I belong. Timothy helped me see that. And listening to my heart, I know I have another dream. Him. Us. Maybe I could stay. I take a slow breath, my heart pounding. But before I can respond, my phone rings. It’s Miranda Tamayo. “I have to take this.” I squeeze Timothy’s arm, and he frowns but nods as I duck toward a quiet corner. I answer her call. “Hi. What’s up? It’s after midnight where you are.” “Ian killed the reading.” Ice settles into my veins, and I blink back my surprise. “Wait, what? It’s been scheduled for months.” “He just sent a private email around to tell the other funders to say he’s lost confidence in the direction of the show and won’t host the reading.” Shock slams into me. “Shit. Can you reassure them?” I have all their contact information from the research I’ve been doing. “I can try, but my words will only go so far. I have other news. I didn’t want to worry you until we knew for sure, but I’ve gotten a breast cancer diagnosis.” I nearly drop the phone as fear seizes my gut. “Miranda, are you okay?” My eyes squeeze shut. “Of course you’re not okay. Tell me everything.” She explains how they found it, that they’re looking at options. All I hear is that my writing partner and mentor’s health is at risk. We may not be the kind of friends who braid each other’s hair, but since we began collaborating more than two years ago, I’ve learned so much from her. She’s never let me down, and I’m not about to let her down. And if we don’t get this show, it would be letting her down. She’s helped write others but this one is hers and mine. She never had children and this show is her baby. “I’ll come back,” I promise, though my chest feels as if it’s caving in. “This weekend. I’ll talk to the funders and find us a new host.” The business side isn’t my strength, but I’ll make it work. “I promise I won’t let you down.” When I go back to the party, I don’t see Timothy. Panic is rising up in my chest, my throat. I trip toward the exit, murmuring a quick “I’m fine” to the concerned security who asks if he can help on my way down the stairs. At street level, I stagger outside and suck in air. The sounds of the music still drift down here, though aside from the soft lights of the house, it’s mostly dark. Tamayo’s news reverberates in the back of my mind. I shove both hands in my hair and pace the road in front of the house, passing expensive cars parked along the way. I have to finish the show—not for myself, but for Miranda, for the people who need it. I have to… I pull up as a shadowy figure emerges from the same door I left through a minute ago. “Dad.” “I saw you come down and wanted to check on you.” His voice is gruff, but there’s an undercurrent of worry. “Someone’s trying to sink our show before it gets started.” He closes the distance between us, and I swallow, a million feelings colliding in my chest. Disappointment. Worry. Despair. “Tell me how I can help.” My exhale is shaky because those six words are everything. It’s not like my dad to be so open without an agenda or without inserting his opinion. But he’s asking. “Do you want to dance?” His hand finds my waist, and I fit my palm in his. He asks me about options, and I tell him what contacts I have, the timing that was planned and how we could make it up. He suggests some paths I hadn’t thought of and listens. By the time we’re done, the song has changed twice, but we’re still moving. “I always saw the dark side of this business,” he says. “But you find ways to make it brighter, to make it better from the inside out. It’s easy to want to be a part of that. Hell, I wouldn’t have started this label if it wasn’t for you. What you’ve done made me rethink the industry. I realized I have more to contribute, and I can make it better instead of living under what it is.” The gentleness in his tone, the compassion, makes the backs of my eyes burn. “You mean it?” Dad nods. “Our children have a way of being better than we are in ways we couldn’t have imagined. When you have kids, you’ll see it too.” He glances down at our feet. “You’re pretty good at this dancing.” My lips curve. “I had to take so many classes. I felt like I was drowning.” “You never looked like it on stage.” Surprise works through me. “When did you see me?” “Any time I could. Opening night. At the holidays. On your birthday.” My fingers dig into his shoulders, and I force them to relax. “But you didn’t say anything.” “I knew I’d fucked up, and I didn’t know how to fix it. You went through so much as a kid, and I always wanted to keep you from hurting more, so I tried to protect you. To insulate you. Instead, I made it worse.” The words come out stilted, as if he’s confessing something he’s held in for too long. I study his face in the half light. This is hard for him, harder than taking Timothy’s advice on his new artist. Maybe even harder than starting a label. It means that much more because it’s hard. “You didn’t make it worse, Dad. I wouldn’t be who I am if you hadn’t been who you were. I remember going to one of your shows when I was a kid. We had front-row seats, and I was the only person under the age of sixteen. I was buzzing from the second the lights went down, and when you came out on stage, the way you looked…” I sigh. “I wanted to be that. I wanted to be you. I used to think it was because everyone loved you. But now, I think it was because even before I found out you were my dad… some part of me knew.” In this moment, I forgive him for all of it, because I know he’s fighting to do the right thing, just like I am. Even if he doesn’t get it all the time…none of us do. But a relationship isn’t forged in a moment, and it isn’t demolished in one, either. There’s always something to be saved, if you want to save it. “I love you, Dad,” I say softly. “And I know I’m lucky to have you in my life.” His eyes shine, and if Eddie Carlton starts crying right now, I’m going to lose it. “I love you too, kid. You get yours,” he says gruffly. “This time, I’ll be in the front row.”