“He’s not done. You guys have been friends since you were in the womb.”
“He’s done, B.” Beau takes a quick sip. “We went out for beers the other night—”
I perk up. “See, that doesn’t feel done.”
“—and he told me to stop contacting him,” Beau finishes.
“Oh.”
“Said he’ll never forgive me and that a real friend wouldn’t do what I did. Called me a piece of shit and said that no years of friendship could make him look at me like Iwasn’ta piece of shit.”
“Oh. Wow. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too.”
I can’t imagine the Golden Boys not being the Golden Boys.Especially considering they’re teammates. “What about hockey? How’s that going to work?”
“No fucking clue. We started practice this week. We’re not on the same line, so that’s good at least, but it’s rough. He just treats me like any other teammate. And if it’s not about hockey, he looks right through me. We’ll see how it goes.” Beau lets out a sigh. “Coach Jensen has picked up on the tension, but he doesn’t get involved unless it affects gameplay. So far, it hasn’t. But yeah, to answer your question, I can’t fix it because it’s unfixable.”
I get that.
That’s how I feel right now.
Unfixable.
Chapter 50
WYATT
AT THE END OF SEPTEMBER, I tag along to Manhattan with my mother. She’s working at the studio for a few days, and I’m meeting with Tobey, who’d been delayed these past few weeks. He loved the songs I sent him, though, so it’s official: I’m cutting an album with Tobey fuckin’ Dodson. Our meeting to talk logistics isn’t for another two days, so I hang around the studio while my mom dons her producer hat.
She’s working with a kid named Frankie Stephens, a baby-faced soul singer from Philly whose label asked my mom to write and produce a track for him.
The control booth is dim save for the glow of the LED meters. Mom leans forward in her chair, one hand on the mixing console, the other cupping a pair of headphones.
“All right, let’s roll it back five seconds.” When her sound guy twists a dial, she says, “No, right before he hits that note.”
I love seeing her in work mode. It’s so cool.
Beyond the glass, Frankie waits patiently, looking happy just tobe there. And of course he is. He’s on the brink of his big break. His whole musical life ahead of him. I feel like I’m on that same precipice.
Mom shakes her head. “Shit.” She plays the track back, letting it run for a few seconds. “Yeah. I think we picked up some room slap from the monitor bleed. We’ll need to run it again, clean.”
Wilmer, the sound guy, nods. “You got it, Hannah.”
She taps a button to speak to her singer. “Frankie, we need to do a retake. Same energy, right from the top. We’ll fix the rest in the mix, but I need this one clean.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Frankie says over the talkback mic.
Mom glances at me. “You must be getting sick of listening to the same four lines over and over again. There’s an empty room next door with a piano if you want to get some work done.”
“Yeah, I might do that. I’m gonna grab some coffee first. Do you want anything? Wilmer?”
“I would love a latte,” Mom says, and Wilmer requests a coffee, black.
There’s a coffee stand out front that everyone at the studio declares is a million times better than Starbucks, so I go outside and make a beeline for it. While I’m waiting for my order, Cole calls, so I step away from the crowded line to answer.
“You still tagging along to my mom’s house before my New York show in November?” he asks. “’Cause she’s asking what you’d like for dinner.”
