“What are they offering?” Jack asks, not pulling the paperwork out. “You never said what the issue was.” He frowns when he sees I haven’t even opened it.
I shake my head instead of answering. Suddenly, Jack’s warm hand is on my shoulder. He knows there is something more to this, and I need him to know what that is.
“I haven’t looked at it because I’m not sure I want it,” I say. “No matter the terms.”
It’s not that big of a surprise I guess. Caswell Vaughn and I were a duo back in college, singing in local college bars. When people started to notice and Cas wanted to take it further, I opted out. Well, I opted out of the performing and the fame Cas found. Instead, I agreed to write songs for the same label that signed Cas.
These days, I have a solid songwriting name, and I have sold several songs other artists and other labels. In fact, it has been years since I haven’t sold a song I wrote and wanted to sell. I can also sell anything Cas doesn’t want, including things that don’t fit his sound or SongStar’s vibe. If he passes on something, I can shop it around even beyond SongStar’s clients.
Sometimes things come out more Country, or the label likes the lyrics and changes the arrangement to something more upbeat for the Pop charts.
My songwriting career is enough that I could live on that full time, but all my brothers and I contribute to the family enterprises. As Jack has mentioned before, the Mann Family is Bear Valley. If we do well, the town thrives, and if not . . .well, the people and place we love would suffer. We own the majority of the properties. Many of the businesses in town are connected to us and drive the resort’s success — from Quinn’s bar to Matt’s restaurant, and many in between. So, I work to keep Bear Valley the magical place it is and then write songs about lost love.
Jack takes a deep breath. I see a flicker of guilt across his face and I wonder if he has already said something to SongStar about my reluctance on this contract. No one knows how I lost my heart to Cas, although I think Jack suspects it. Maybe Matt. Hell, maybe Quinn, too. It wasn’t a secret we were together over a decade ago. Cas spent several college holidays right here in Bear Valley.
But if Jack does know how hard the breakup was for me, then he also knows not taking this contract is me ending the last thread connecting me and Cas. The last, tender filament holding us together.
I almost laugh.
There’s nome and Cas. Except in my head.
“If you are sure, Bee?” he asks. “You are under no obligation to take it, you know.”
“I know, I just don’t. . .” I sigh, struggling as I always do to take my thoughts and make them into words without writing it down. “Can you just let me know the terms and all that, ok? I just don’t want to. . .”
Jack pulls the papers out and whistles.
“Not one tab, not one sticky-note, Bee,” he says, brotherly teasing because he knows I generally note the hell out of any contract before giving it to him. I’ve learned a few things after years in this business.
He meets my gaze. He knows. He knows why I haven’t read this one. He somehow knows I still carry Cas around in my heart. Jack can see through the amicable parting Cas and I had, despite being co-writers, co-performers, and lovers.
He knows that while we call each other friends, Cas and I haven’t actually talked, or even been in a room together in thirteen years. That’s why he’s the one passing along my song demos to Cas.
I haven’t hidden my broken heart well these last few years. Not as well as I used to. The solitude band-aid is wearing thin, and Jack sees it.
Is it possible to want someone so deeply that time doesn’t change anything? It was supposed to be the cure all, the thing that healed all wounds.
So much for that.
“I haven’t looked at it,” I tell him, again. “I think I might need to just. . . move on.” I cough to cover my awkward words. “From SongStar.”
Yeah. That’s what I mean.
Move on, god I fucking hate that phrase. It’s what I tried to do in the bed of any willing body after Cas left for LA. A phrase I was pretty sure I would never say, and now that I have, it tastes bitter.
“You could come out tonight with. . .” Jack begins, but I am already shaking my head before he finishes and asks me to go by Black Diamond, the bar Quinn owns, for a bit this afternoon.
“But, maybe next time,” I say.
Jack glances up, trying to hide his surprise.
I never offer a “next time.”
“I’m good, Jack,” I tell him, just like I have a thousand Fridays before. Perrin touches his arm, and Jack smiles a special smile they share between them.
“I’ll take a look at it, then.” And they are out the door with Jack giving only a short glance over his shoulder with a frown.
Before the sunset has even streaked the sky, I am on the wide back deck of my cabin, prepared for my version of Friday night. My guitar is at my feet, a notebook and pen, a drink — soda with a splash of vodka, although my hand will get heavier on the bottle as the night goes on.
