Hound followed us inside, and I heel-toed my sandals off, leaving them by the door.
“What are you up to?” I asked as we entered the kitchen. I placed the food on the table.
“I got sent home early.” She frowned.
“Why? What’s wrong?” I glanced down at her belly.
“Nothing,” she said, huffing. “My ankles got a little swollen, and my overprotective husband freaked the hell out. Said I was working too much.” She sucked her teeth and moved from the kitchen to the living room, leaving me to follow.
“But you’re okay?” I asked as we took a seat on the couch.
“I’m perfectly fine. The swelling is normal. My doctor told us this a hundred times, but with the heat, Micah swears I’m overexerting myself. Even though I’ve barely been outdoors in weeks.”
I smiled, hearing the annoyance in her voice.
“But getting sent home gave me a little free time to get some work done in the nursery. Micah will be pissed when he finds out I built the changing table all by myself.” She shrugged. “What’s up with you?”
“I’ve been writing again.” I couldn’t contain my excitement at finally being able to say it out loud to someone other than Gabriel.
Her eyes widened. “Like, writing, writing?”
I nodded excitedly. “I’ve got at least two songs to where I want them, and I even arranged one of them this morning. I’m trying my hand at producing this album.”
“That’s great, Lena. I always wondered why you never produced on your previous albums.” Jodi gave me a curious expression.
“Long story short, I had a bunch of people around me telling me that I needed to stick to what I knew, which was writing.”
“The loudest of which was probably Nate. Am I right?”
I rolled my eyes. “He was one of the main ones, but there were others, too.”
Early in my career, I mentioned wanting to produce songs, but my father and the men he had me working with practically laughed me out of the room.
“You’re lucky we’re even letting you write, little girl,”one famous producer had said. I was eighteen, and that guy had a slew of top one hundred records under his belt. He’d worked with huge names. Who was I to question his judgment?
A couple of years after that, Nate took on the same attitude about my ability to produce. He said producing was best left to the men.
“I wrote another song today, just now.”
Jodi turned toward me, curled her legs up on the couch. “Tell me about it.”
The food I brought over sat in the kitchen, long forgotten, as I recounted the day's events and what led to the song pouring out of me.
“So, wait, you went over to No Sweat and accused Gabe of setting you up?”
I lowered my forehead into the palm of my hand and groaned. “I know,” I whined. “It was stupid, and I didn’t really think he did it, but first Demetria suggested it, and then Rayven called and brought it up again. I started remembering all of the BS in my last relationship, I got confused, and I needed to hear him either admit it or tell me he didn’t do it.”
“So, what do you believe now?” Jodi asked.
“I don’t think he did it, but …” I sighed.
“But …” Jodi drew out.
“I don’t know what to think. That’s where the song I wrote in the bar came from.” I patted my shoulder bag that sat in between us, which held my notebook.
“Can I hear it?”
I started to reach for my bag but then stopped. “I would, but I can’t.”
