“Sorry, I have plans. But just so you know, you’ll need your fake IDs. They card at the door.”
The two of them share a disgruntled look before scampering away. Once they’re out of the building, Emma twists my shoulders to face her.
“That was amazing!You’reamazing.” She hugs me.
“So are you,” I say.
When she pulls away, all I see are those familiar amber eyes.
It must be a Dawson thing.
12
EVERETT
After a rough Monday morning with Quinn, I’m treading dangerously close to a mental breakdown. I used to brush off her outbursts as toddler tantrums. They didn’t faze me like they do now.
If it was myonlyproblem, I could handle it. It’s not. It’s been almost a week in my new studio, and I haven’t written anything but a basic melody.
I play a riff, adjust the tuning pegs until I get the perfect pitch, and then strum the first chord on my favorite guitar. It’s the same one I was gifted at graduation from my parents. Everything I’ve ever written has been on this instrument. I used to call it “lucky strings” in the same way a basketball player might consider a pair of socks after winning a state championship in them. This guitar used to tellmewhat to write. It doesn’t feel so lucky anymore.
I tuck a pen between my teeth and play the next few chords. Over and over until five minutes drag into ten, ten into twenty, twenty into an hour. The melody is there but nothing else. Nothing but empty words and blank promises.
I shove the guitar off my lap and chuck the pen across the room. It slaps the wall and topples, end to tip, on the floor.
I’m distracted. It’s been three days since meeting with Quinn’s teacher. I convinced myself I didn’t give a shit how long that business card lived in my car; I was never going to look at it again. That was before doubt sunk in. Fear that they might all be right about her.
I’ve tried every trick I know to help Quinn communicate—getting her to look at me when I’m speaking, asking her to repeat what she said, attempting to fill in the blanks for sounds she leaves out. I don’t know what else to do.
An evaluation feels like the only option.
Most days I’ve been in such a hurry to get in the studio that today’s slow, defeated climb down the stairs has me noticing they don’t creak anymore. Next time I see Will, I’ll have to thank him for that too. I register I’m heading toward my car before I mentally catch up.
The number of reporters lurking outside the house has died down in the last few days. Must be bored with my new mundane life. I’m still discreet, snatching the business card for the speech therapy clinic from my glove box and stuffing it in my pants pocket before getting out of the car. It’s not how I imagined utilizing the soundproof paneling in my new studio, but letting the tabloids catch wind of the phone call I’m about to make is the last thing I need. Whether or not they’re legally allowed to write about what happens in the confines of my private property is irrelevant. People talk and word will travel fast.
I rush back inside.You’re just finding out your options, I remind myself as I prop my feet up on the desk and lean back in the chair.This doesn’t have to be a sure thing.
An automated voice answers after a single ring. “Hello!You’ve reached Words Matter. Press one if you’d like to schedule an appointment. Press two if?—”
I punch the number one, and a perky voice answers. “Thank you for calling Words Matter, this is Katie!”
“Hi.” The word rushes out of me before I can take it back, hang up, and burn the business card.
“Can I help you?”
“Uh… yeah.” I scratch the top of my head and run a palm down the back of my hair, flattening it. “My daughter’s teacher recommended your clinic.”
“Typically, we take referrals from the child’s pediatrician. But if you provide their name, we can reach out and get the information for you. Can I get your daughter’s first and last name, please?”
It hits me, the panic…
How much information are these people going to want to know?
“Uh… I was hoping to ask a few more questions first,” I answer.
“Of course. How can I help?”
I want to tell her I don’t need herhelp, but that’s the reality of why I called, isn’t it? There’s no sense skirting the truth with this woman the same way I did with Caroline, Quinn’s teacher, even Summer.
