Maybe he had a point. Maybe I didn’t know what else I could achieve.
When I finally crashed in bed, fully clothed, I promised that tomorrow I’d learn more about myself. I’d take time to experience more of life.
Lucian didn’t call, but he did send a message—this time with three whole words instead of two.
Aspen. Call me.
Days five to seven.
The rest of the week, I had breakfast with Otto in the lounge by the window. He gave me his top recommendations for places to eat and things to see, and I did my best to go to them all.
I learned that I loved dancing so much that I didn’t care if I was the only person on the floor. I learned that I am damn good at pickleball and duck bowling, but terrible at regular bowling. I learned that I like being vociferous when I win, and no one judged me for being too loud, competitive, orfiery.
I discovered that I enjoyed museums, but not those that focused too much on history. I preferred exhibits about design and art. I discovered that I really, really loved design, which was unsurprising considering how much I enjoyed redesigning the Quinn Music Group offices a few years ago. I’d only experienced that kind of excitement and passion when it came to music.
Each night, I fell into bed with a smile on my face and plans for the next day.
Lucian stopped calling.
He didn’t send any more messages.
Day Eight.
After another abundant breakfast, I headed out for an all-day tour of New Orleans’ historic homes, focusing on the evolution of architecture and design over the years. Toward the end of the tour, I fell into an intense conversation with a man on the tour, which led to an even more intense debate over whether trendy or timeless styles were better.
“So, what company are you a designer at?” he asked at the end.
“What? Me?” I snorted and laughed. “I’m not a designer.”
“Huh…” His brows rose as he pulled a card from his wallet, extending it to me. “Well, if you ever decide to become a designer, call me.”
I took the card and blinked down at it. My brows furrowed as I went over the past couple of hours, trying to understand what he saw in me to assume something so insane.
Was it insane, though?
My blood thrummed in my veins with spikes of adrenaline, and my cheeks hurt from smiling so much. Something that I usually only experienced with music.
Again, my father’s words came flooding back from the beginning, when the whole reason this mess with Lucian even started.
“I hate the idea of you tying yourself to this job when you don’t even know if this is what you really want.”
“Of course, it’s what I want. I’ve wanted this my whole life.”
“Because you refused to try anything else.”
The excitement fell away, leaving me with more questions than I knew what to do with.
I went back to the hotel for the rest of the night, ordered a cheeseburger, and lay in silence, wondering if I really loved music or if it was all I allowed myself to know—wondering if I knew myself at all.
Day nine.
I woke up to my phone’s obnoxious ringing and the sun flooding my room. I squinted my eyes and slapped my hand toward the nightstand in an attempt to make the trilling stop.
Expecting to find Lucian’s name on the screen, I almost hit ignore, but stopped at the last minute when I saw Ash’s name instead.
“Hey,” I answered, my voice rough from sleep.
“Are you sleeping?” he asked incredulously. “It’s one o’clock.”
