CHAPTER 47

I’m ripped from my dreams in my former bedroom the next morning. For once, it’s not because I’ve got an idea for a song or a line I need to write down. It’s because of shrieking in the distance. I tug on tailored black shorts and a white tank top I brought from New York and head downstairs, but by the time I get there, it’s quiet. The morning sun spills in through the huge kitchen windows and the slider doors. The only sign of life is Haley moving around the cavernous space, making coffee in a flowing black top. “Everyone alive?” I ask. She turns, smiling. “Your dad took Sophia to daycare. She’s always loved it, but recently, she’s not a fan. Oliver doesn’t like her and she doesn’t like Teddy.” She’s moving slowly toward the fridge, either from tiredness or her gigantic belly, and I spring into action. “You sit down. I’ll make breakfast.” I grab a carton of eggs, some bacon, and cheese for good measure, plus a huge frying pan from a cupboard, before turning on the gas. “Why did you invite me without telling Dad?” I ask over my shoulder. “I shouldn’t be mad at a pregnant woman. But I am.” “It was kind of a dick move, but my heart was in the right place. I wasn’t sure I could get you both here with your guards down otherwise.” I drop four strips of bacon into the pan. “I shouldn’t have lied to him—to both of you—about school, but he overreacted when he found out.” “I get why you feel that way. I do. But if you look for evidence to be angry with someone, you’ll always find it. What kind of place would the world be if we stopped weighing and measuring mistakes, and using those measurements to define our relationships? Maybe we’d be able to choose how we want to feel about other people from love instead of judgement.” I crack eggs into the remaining half of the simmering pan, watching the whites spread. “How come Dad has eight years on you, but you’re the sensible one?” She snorts. “The question for you,” she continues, “isn’t whether you want to be part of this family, but how you want to be part of it. I’m the one with the least say, but for what it’s worth, I’d love for you to be here to celebrate days like yesterday. To feel like this is your home when you need one. I want to see you and your dad laugh when Sophia names her trucks after eighties bands and races them down the hallway. I want all of us to raise a glass to you when you conquer the world, or when you go down trying.” I don’t know how I’m going to settle things with my dad, but hearing how Haley talks, seeing the three of them together, knowing I’ll have a new half brother or sister soon, I want to be a part of it. The plates are in the same cabinet they used to be, and I retrieve two. I finish cooking our breakfast and set both plates in front of us. Haley chuckles as she takes in the flower design I made on her plate with syrup. “I figured no one’s done this for you lately.” She smiles. “You’d be right. Does this mean you’re not mad anymore?” “Jury’s still out.” I drop into the seat across from her, and we dig in. “How’s the musical coming? You told me you’re working with mostly the same team, but you and your writing partner are leading this time instead of following.” She reaches for her mug. Nervous energy has me swallowing an extra big bite of egg. “It’s going to be amazing. Creatively, it’s been going well until now. We have ten songs written, but I’m struggling to drag it across the finish line. It’s not like I can’t write anything. But nothing seems to matter enough. Nothing feels good enough or big enough or true enough.” I’ve spent hours a day trying to get myself out of this rut—reading, going for walks, brainstorming... I even bought a dream journal which, so far, succeeded in telling me I spend way too much of my subconscious thinking about pastries. “The end is always the hardest.” “Right? And I’ve been distracted because the funders…” I savagely bite into a piece of bacon. “The money is complicated. We have a reading scheduled with prospective funders at the end of the summer. Miranda and I thought it would be a slam dunk, but it’s looking harder every day.” Because Ian was supposed to fund this. Ian was not, however, supposed to fuck another woman, particularly the afternoon I walked into his apartment unannounced. My stepmom takes a long sip of decaf, staring thoughtfully at her empty plate. “You need a change of scenery.” I lift my brows in surprise. “Here?” “It’s a huge house. There’s plenty of room without stepping on anyone’s toes. Plus, you always loved the patio in the summer.” Dad and I might kill each other. But my gaze drops to the hand she rubs over her stomach. “This guy or girl has been keeping me up. They’re not due for another six weeks, but I don’t think we’re going to last that long. Sophie’s started waking in the middle of the night, and your dad’s been busy with unexpected administration issues for the label.” Compassion washes over me. “Let me help,” I hear myself say. “I can’t stay for six weeks, but maybe two? I can flex my work around watching Sophia and whatever you need.” Her face relaxes. “I’d love that. And your dad would, too.” “Let’s not go crazy,” I say dryly, and she laughs again. I take our plates to the dishwasher and look out the kitchen windows over the patio. There are a couple of cars I can make out through the hedges separating us from the small tree-lined parking lot. “Who’s at the label this early?” “Probably Shay. Maybe someone’s booked in to record.” “Okay. I’ll catch up with you later.” I head outside and go to the label, letting myself through the side door and into the lobby. The girl behind the desk is the same one from yesterday. She’s facing away, humming a catchy song. She turns around and spots me, startled, and pulls off her headphones. “Emily! Can I help with something? I’m supposed to make sure everyone signs in. I know it’s weird to ask you to, but… I got a new book and everything,” she says proudly. I write on the fresh sheet of paper. “Sure. No one else has signed in yet?” “Studio One is booked all week starting at noon. Your dad is holding studio two for his own artists. Today you’re our first guest.” I head down the hall, bracing myself as I glance into Studio Two. I know I won’t see the same thing I saw yesterday—that woman and Timothy—but my stomach tightens anyway. The studio is empty. I continue to the offices. The door of the one with Dad’s name on it is closed, but the second’s is open. It’s sparse but stylish. There’s a desk, a potted palm in one corner, and a beautiful piano. Unable to resist, I cross to the piano, skimming a finger over the ivory keys and playing a few bars of the song I’ve been working on all month. “Don’t stop now, it was just getting good.” I jump at the sound of Timothy’s voice, spinning to see him emerge from under the desk wearing jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and a crooked grin. “What are you doing here?” I ask. “Trying to plug in. I need to hard wire the internet for a virtual meeting later. I’m babysitting your dad’s new shining star, who is coming by”—from under the edge, I see him check his watch—“twenty minutes ago, supposedly.” Some musicians make their fans feel welcome, invite them into their lives and homes on social media. Timothy’s always held them at a distance. The paparazzi love him. The cleverer he gets at evading, the more they stalk. I empathize with both sides—him wanting privacy and fans dying to know more about this man who lights up a stage with his earnest talent. They want to know who Timothy Adams is. Can’t say I blame them. Seeing him at the party affected me. Not in a jealousy kind of way, but because catching up with him after reminded me of the deliberate, thoughtful guy I grew up with. Except there was a new dimension to him, too. An ease, with himself and the world, that he didn’t have when we were together. Just because we’ve barely spoken in two years doesn’t mean we can’t be civilized adults now. There’s no rule that say you need to hate your ex. “Let me try.” I brush past him and tug the phone from the pocket of my jean shorts and set it down. It’s a tight fit under the desk as I crouch, but there’s a hole to thread the cord through, and I work away at it. “Thanks. Didn’t know this office came with tech support,” Timothy says, his voice muffled from above the desk. I flip him off and he chuckles. My phone rings on the desk. “Ian,” he reads off the display, and I stiffen. “Do not get that.” “You playing hooky from work?” I stick my head out, glaring up at him. “Timothy, I’m serious.” “Not a work call. Boyfriend, then. Wonder if he knows you’re ducking him.” The casual words drag me back to the past. The first time we broke up, when he left me after high school, it was a rip. A violent tear. The second time was a loosening, little by little. Day by day. My heart wasn’t ripped from my chest; it was pried—with a blunt, persistent instrument—worked under one edge at a time, until nothing remained to hold it in its place. Unreturned phone messages thanks to demanding rehearsals. Half-hearted texts after long flights. Two months of slow descent, the beginning of the end. But it was what I wanted when I told him to take that tour. For his life to go on, and mine too. We’ve both moved on. I resist the urge to rub at my chest, the dull ache there as my fingers rush to finish what I started so I can get out of here, get relief from the way his presence affects me. The cord finally clicks into place, and I grunt with triumph before I rock back on my heels to take him in. “What about you?” I challenge, thinking of how I walked in on him yesterday. “Is that why you never post on social—so you can keep a bunch of women in different cities who want to think they’re the only one? It’s not original, but it’s effective.” Timothy drops into the task chair. He props an elbow on the armrest, displaying the threads of ink that wind up his arm. I swear there are more than there were two years ago. I try to ignore the fact that his perfect denim-clad hips, those strong legs, are at eye level. “I don’t post pics with women because it’s not my ‘brand’.” The self-mocking in his voice and the air quotes make me blink. “Marketing sent me a sheet with these adjectives about how the label thinks I should appear.” I stand, then sink my hips back against the desk. I realize too late I’m still practically in his lap. “Let me guess—you’re mysterious but earnest. Intense. Maybe even repressed, except when you’re on stage.” “How’d you get a copy?” I can’t help laughing, and Timothy grins too. The familiarity of it washes over me. “I didn’t. But I know you. I know how you are on stage and when you’re alone in a room. I know why fans go crazy for you, and I know the things they’d go crazier for if they knew.” The laughter in his eyes fades at the intimacy of my words. Okay, acting civilized is one thing. Don’t let this get weird, I chastise. “So when are you heading back to LA?” I ask, dragging a finger along the surface of the desk for somewhere to look that’s not his handsome face, the lines of his strong arms, or the hand covered in scars and new ink. My gaze snaps to his. “You’re not staying at the house.” The horror in my voice would be funny under other circumstances. “I have a hotel.” Relief has me sagging against the desk. “I might be sticking around a couple of weeks, too.” Those chocolate eyes spark so fast I almost think I’ve imagined it. I’m here to clear my head for work and help Haley. Timothy could be a distraction. You think? I can handle being around him for a few days. I’ll probably barely see him. It’s not like high school, where we were bumping into each other in the kitchen, by the pool, every day in class. “This place is pretty epic,” Timothy notes, looking around. “Right? It’s so new. Haley told me they stripped it down to almost nothing before rebuilding.” “Not nothing.” Timothy nods toward the ceiling. I crane my neck to look up, spotting the same thing he has. “The rafter.” One of the beams from the original pool house is still visible, painted to match the white ceiling and spanning this office and the next one. “You can always start over, but you can never erase the past,” I murmur. “Do you want to?” I look back at Timothy, one brow lifted under a fall of dark hair. Those words have me thinking of us again. How we might have grown up and moved on with our lives, but we can’t forget what we were. “No,” I say at last. “I don’t.” Timothy tugs at a drawer, which glides open to reveal nothing except a container of paper clips. He pulls out a paper clip and unbends the end of it. “This Ian of yours. He meet your dad and Haley?” I frown at the sudden change in subject. “No.” Timothy moves the chair toward me an inch, two, then hooks the end of the paper clip in the belt loop of my jeans. “A real man meets his girl’s parents.” He’s close enough his scent invades my senses. It’s the sunshine and cedar I remember, with a smoky edge. “Does a real man sneak out her window so her parents don’t find out he spent the night?” I counter, thinking of prom, when he took Carla to the dance—when I slept in his arms after and made him promise not to leave. Timothy’s gaze narrows. If I didn’t know it was crazy, I’d think he was worked up about Ian. I don’t need to tell him we’re broken up, because that’ll only invite more questions when it’s none of his business and I really don’t want to talk about it with Timothy. He rises from his chair, leaning in to murmur at my ear. “The next time I visit your room at night, I promise I’ll use the door after.” He walks out, leaving the paperclip dangling from my shorts.