“Three labels want to fund your album. Two streaming services want exclusive rights to the new song. And someone from Rolling Stone wants an interview about your ‘artistic emergence.’“ She looks up at that, grinning. “I’m telling them all to get in line. Oh, and Rex’s team called—they want to know if you’d consider collaborating on his next album. Apparently, his producer caught wind of tonight’s performance.”
“Rex?” I look at Darian, who just shrugs with a small smile.
“I may have mentioned you to them when I told them I was staying in Nashville,” he says. “Figured if they wanted the best, they should know about you.”
Artistic emergence. It’s dramatic, but it’s accurate. The person I was before tonight, the one who hid behind the venue manager desk, who wrote songs she never shared—she’s gone.
The person standing here now, still high on the applause and the connection with that audience, she’s someone new. Someonewho writes songs in her boyfriend’s kitchen at three in the morning. Someone who winks at her daughter from the stage. Someone who doesn’t need anyone’s permission to exist.
“Mom, can I come to the party?” Lily asks.
“Absolutely not,” I say, then soften it with a kiss to her forehead. “But we’ll go to breakfast tomorrow, just you and me. I’ll tell you all the inappropriate details.”
“Gross.”
“You love it.”
She hugs me again, quick and fierce. “I’m proud of you,” she says, so quietly I almost miss it.
“Come on, sweet pea,” my mother says to Lily. “Let’s get you home. School tomorrow.”
“But Grandma?—”
“No buts. Your mama’s got business to handle.” Marlene gives me a knowing look. “You go celebrate. You’ve earned it.”
After they leave together, Lily’s still chattering about the performance and my mother’s arm around her granddaughter’s shoulders, I stand in the now-empty backstage area with Darian. The adrenaline’s fading, leaving behind this bone-deep satisfaction I haven’t felt ever.
“You know what the best part was?” I ask.
“The standing ovation? Nina crying? The offers pouring in?”
“All good, but no.” I turn to face him fully. “The best part was looking at you in the wings during that song and knowing you understood every word. Knowing you lived through every word with me.”
He pulls me closer, his hands framing my face. “I love you,” he says, simple and clear. “The real you. The one who throws notebooks and refuses to rhyme heart with apart.”
“It’s still lazy writing.”
“It’s still classic.”
I kiss him then, right there in the empty backstage, tasting champagne and possibility on his lips. Tonight feels like a beginning, not just of my career but of this version of me who can hold love and ambition in the same hands without dropping either.
“Come on,” I say, pulling back. “Let’s go celebrate my artistic emergence.”
“Should we practice your butterfly emerging from cocoon speech?”
“Shut up.”
“What about your breaking out of your shell metaphors?”
“I’m leaving you here.”
He laughs, following me toward the dressing room. “Nina would kill me if I let you go to this party alone. She already texted me three times about making sure you network.”
“When did Nina get your number?”
“The day after she heard you were finally doing this showcase. She wanted to make sure I understood the stakes.”
“Which are?”
