“Brandon was right,” I mutter. “Jack’s trying to take credit for my songs.”
“What?”
“Since he performed them publicly, he can claim they were his first, thereby—”
“Thereby establishingprima facie—”
“Will you let me finish?” I cry, thumping the dashboard. “God.”
Her eyes widen, but she smooths her expression quickly.
“Legal tantrums?” she teases, trying to coax a smile from me.
It doesn’t work.
She sighs. “Look. You’ve been writing those songs for years. Easy enough to prove they’re yours.”
“Yes and no.” I unzip my gig bag and pull out my batteredspiral notebook.
“Aww, the one with the little Hedwigs! You still have it?”
“Seriously?Harry Potter?Now?”
“Just trying to lighten the mood slightly before you start spiralling.”
“I’m not spiralling.”
“Alright.” She glances at the notebook. “So, what’s in there?”
“Everything. Tabs. Lyrics. Dreams.”
“All in your handwriting. Good start. What else have you got?”
“There is no ‘else’,” I say glumly, flipping through the notebook. “This is all I have.”
“No recordings?”
I shake my head.
“Social media? Email?Anythingdigital with a timestamp?”
“No. I never shared my songs until now. I just…remember them.”
She winces. “So, you have no proof of when you wrote them.”
“Most of it’s in grey lead pencil, if that helps?”
“Oh yes, good idea,” she says sarcastically. “Let me just run this up to the nearest lab, and we’ll get it carbon-datedfor you.”
I snap the notebook shut, heat rising under my skin.
“I get it, alright? Jack screwed me over. But I never thought I’d one day end up in England dating a café owner who just so happens to be Dustin Willoughby’s nephew and who, by the way, wants to steal my songs!”
“Okay, no need to shout.”
“You were shouting first!”
I hit the dash again. Pain snaps up my hand, and she smirks as I massage it.
