CHAPTER 50 (2)

I hope to hell she didn’t fall for Ian because she thought she needed him. The fact that he hurt her makes me want to crush the only good fist I have left into his face. But thinking of the ex has a dark thought occurring to me. I liked the idea she wanted me yesterday, wanted another shot at how we’d ended things. Was he the reason she was questioning herself in the first place? I’m not stupid enough to think what happened between us was some kind of a sign—we’ve both moved on, I’ve got an album to make and she’s finishing a show—but fuck it, I need to know. “Timothy.” Zeke walks into my dressing room after sound check, and I shift back in my chair. The guys from the band are around me, talking amongst themselves, but when he enters, they nod deferentially before ducking out into the hall to make themselves scarce. The exec drops onto the arm of the couch. “You’ve been posting on social.” “You proud?” I drawl. “The venue you tagged is in Dallas.” He frowns. “There’s a strict competition clause in your contract. You can’t record for any other label.” “I was visiting an old friend. Remember, I’m on the first vacation I’ve had in two years. Once I get through this surgery, I’ll be back in the studio to finish the album.” “You know your career has nothing to do with your hand.” I shift back in my seat, a humorless smile pulling across my face. “You’re saying that day Eddie and I went to your house senior year, if I hadn’t been able to play, you still would’ve offered me a deal.” He narrows his gaze. “Two hundred years ago, men figured out how to make music with machines. The player piano. The music box. Everyday people could have music when they wanted—accurate, predictable, perfect. “Being proficient in playing doesn’t make you a good musician. Being proficient in feeling—in believing what you’re doing so much it makes someone listening, someone watching, connect with it—that’s what it’s fucking about. “That’s what I saw in you that day. A quiet, gives-zero-shits kid who came alive the second he picked up a guitar.” His words are unsettling, though I’m saved examining them too closely when my phone buzzes with an incoming call from Emily. “Regardless of the outcome of your procedure, I expect you back in studio the next week or you’ll be paying for missed time out of your royalties,” Zeke tosses as he heads for the door. “Always a pleasure.” Zeke and I have always had a rocky relationship, but my relentless focus on being the best I can clashes with his “make money first” approach.” He disappears down the hall and I go back to my phone, hitting Accept. “Everything okay?” I answer, concerned. “Yes. Fine,” Emily says, a little breathless. “I just called to say good luck tonight.” I’m still on edge from Zeke’s threat, my hand tightening on the phone. I haven’t spoken to her since yesterday in the studio, and the sound of her voice has every part of me tightening as I remember the way she fell apart under my hands and my mouth. But despite my physical response to her now, I can’t help thinking of all the times she didn’t call to wish me good luck when I was on tour. The times I didn’t text her because I knew she was busy. She’s calling now. Which means nothing. Tell her goodnight. Get moving. “How was your day?” I ask instead, shifting out of the chair and leaning over the bureau, pressing my bad hand on the surface. The fingers won’t straighten all the way. “Less exciting than yours. Took Sophia to daycare. Met Avery for coffee before she headed back to New York. Worked on the musical. Went for a swim. With the bathing suit this time,” she adds lightly. I turn over my hand and inspect the tangle of black vines and thorns and roses, the white lines beneath. Layers upon layers of ink and scars, like the layers of lies and feelings and decisions that litter our past. I should be hanging up, both to get on with my prep and because talking to her like this feels too good, too much like something I could look forward to. “I was listening to a demo Shane sent in the car today,” I hear myself say. “She’s good. I’d love to cut the punk loose and put Shane in the studio instead.” “Then do it.” Her direct reply takes me by surprise. “This isn’t my fight. It’s not my music.” “Diving into someone else’s mess can be the best way to get out of your own. Maybe you need something bigger than yourself to believe in.” My bassist sticks his head in the doorway, calling my name and jerking his head toward the stage. I take a last look in the mirror at my stage getup, the makeup, the hair—all done by professionals to craft a man who looks like me but isn’t quite. “Tell me yesterday wasn’t you trying to fuck your ex out of your head.” My blunt words have her pausing. But there’s a cord of strength in her voice when she responds. “I think I needed to feel alive in a way I haven’t felt in a long time. I wanted to feel in control, which I know is a weird way to think of what happened, but it’s true.” Maybe I haven’t been alive these past two years despite the crowds and the music and pressing past every challenge that’s been leveled at me. Maybe I didn’t feel in control until I had her heated skin under my lips, her hot breath on my hand, her tight body squeezing me when she broke apart. When I answered her call, I wanted to prove my heart doesn’t beat for her. But now, it’s hammering harder than ever. “You are the most alive person I’ve ever met,” I say. “I saw your show in New York four times. I couldn’t see opening night off-Broadway because we had a gig in Colorado. But the second night, I flew in. And your first night on Broadway. I even saw it once without you in it, because there was something I suspected but wanted to know for sure.” I block out the noises from the backstage crew, the chatter and footsteps in the hall, until all I hear is her soft breathing. “What’s that?” “It was better with you.” Everything’s better with you.