I lift a brow. “He’s not worried I’ll try anything with us alone in here?”
“Nah, anyone who sings that pretty isn’t gonna hurt me.” Her magnetic eyes sweep over me. Up and down. “Why don’t I know you? I should know you.”
“I mean… I’m nobody.” I shrug.
“Highly doubt that.” Despite the flirtatious note in her voice, her gaze is shrewd, gleaming with intelligence.
I’m caught off guard by her entire demeanor. Onstage, at her sold-out stadium shows, she comes off as, well, flighty. Dumb even. Might be a shitty judgment to make, but that’s the vibe I got. And she’s always hyper to the max, with the fringe and the bright eyeshadow,the high-heeled boots and wild dance moves.
But right now, her energy is mellow. Low-key.
“I’m Wyatt,” I say. “Wyatt Graham.”
She brightens. “Graham? Related to Hannah?”
“She’s my mom.”
“Holy shit. You realize your mom is iconic, right?”
Coming from another icon, that makes me smile. “Yeah, she’s pretty great.”
“She wrote a duet for me and Stylo. One of my favorite tracks to sing live. When he comes in, the crowd goes nuts.” Mollie May gestures toward the piano. “Did she write that? The song you were just playing?”
“Nope. That was a Wyatt Graham original.”
She looks impressed. “Do you write all your own shit?”
“Yeah. I’m not a great collaborator.” I sigh ruefully. “But I’m trying to be.”
That makes her grin. “I used to be the same way. Insisted on writing everything on my own. My first album was all me. Every track. And then the second one, I literally cried because I had to give a credit to this producer who made a change tooneline, and apparently that earns them credit. Third album, I gave credit to fuckin’ everyone—because you know what I realized?”
“What?” I’m genuinely fascinated by this conversation.
“That it’s arrogant to think other people don’t have anything to offer me.”
“I’m sort of reaching that conclusion myself,” I confess. “I just spent a month in Boston letting my mother point out all the things that were wrong with my song.”
“But it made it better, though, didn’t it?” She tilts her head knowingly.
“Yes,” I grumble. “But don’t tell her I said that.”
That gets me another delighted laugh. “So. Who is she?”
“Who’s who?”
“The girl whose smile stops the world. Who’s the song about?”
Pain clenches around my heart. “Oh, just someone I…”
I can’t finish. I don’t know how to.
Someone I used to love? Well, no, because I still love her with every fiber of my being.
Someone who used to love me?
Someone I created a life with?
Someone who doesn’t see a future with me?
