She’s smiling, which makes my nerves tingle with anticipation.
“A friend of mine owns a recording studio. I called him up and booked you in for Saturday.”
I frown, not sure I’m understanding what she’s saying. Her wording isn’t elaborate, but my brain’s telling me this is too good to be true, and before I start doing handsprings, I want to make sure I heard her right. “You booked me—”
“To record your song. I thought a professional recording could really make it stand out. We could’ve recorded it here, but—”
I pounce on her and hug her so hard her breath whooshes from her lungs. And then she’s patting my back, laughing softly.
“Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!” I chant before letting her go.
“Does Saturday work for you?”
“Heck, yeah!” Tears pop out. “I’m going to record a song in a studio! A real studio!”
Lynn laughs gently. “It’s about time.”
She gives me all the details while I try to quiet my emotions. I don’t do a good job of it, though. My eyes are as watery and puffy as the time Rae squirted hot sauce into them—long story… wasn’t her fault.
“You should tell your mom to come,” Steffi says.
That blitzes my meltdown. “I’m sure she’s busy.”
They both scrutinize me.
I look toward the shivering magnolia tree. “But I’ll ask her.” I won’t, though. If I ask her and she comes, it’ll ruin the greatest moment of my life. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to pay you back for this.”
“You could help us weed,” Steffi suggests.
Laughter snaps out of me. “I don’t think that would be wise. I’d probably murder your lawn.”
Steffi grins. “It was worth a try.”
“How about I go make some lemonade? I’m pretty useless in the kitchen but I make a mean lemonade.”
Lynn crouches back in front of the hydrangeas. “By all means, squeeze away.”
After straining the ligaments in my hands, because Lynn and Steffi don’t own a juicer—I make a mental note of getting them one as a thank-you—I return to the backyard with a pitcher and three glasses.
I spend another hour with them, discussing the contest while they clip and till under a sun that seems brighter and warmer than it’s ever been before. If I close my eyes and tip my head up, I can almost imagine it’s the beam from a stage light.
Not that I’ve ever felt one, but hopefully… soon, I’ll be blinded by one.
40
Killing Me Softly with Food
The strange thing about your mom being a decorator is that every space she touches feels like home, even if it doesn’t look or smell familiar. She’s only worked on the Dylans’ mansion for a little over a month, but already the walls have been painted in a broad palette of pastels—Mom loves mixing colors like elephant gray and dawn purple—and the oak floors have been oiled instead of varnished. Where the hallway meets the living room, the hardwood planks are staggered with slabs of beige stone cut in the exact same dimension as the planks. She calls this techniquefade in, fade out.
“Let’s watch the show upstairs.” Nev rushes up the swooping wooden staircase, but halts when I don’t follow. “Are you coming or what?”
“Give me a second, girl. It’s my first time here.” I shrug out of my denim jacket and stuff it into my tote. “Can I get a tour before we sit on our butts and inhale popcorn?”
She zips back down the stairs so fast she almost stumbles. “Sure.” She starts off down a short hallway. “Over here’s the kitchen.”
I follow her, taking in the modern glass sconces that adorn the whitewashed wainscoted wall. Even though it’s not yet dark out, the lights are on. In fact, it seems like Nev’s turned on every light in the house.
When Ten, who’s been extra friendly all week, mentioned he had atrack meet tonight, which happens to be the same night his father needs to be in LA to dine with a client, I suggested hanging out with Nev.
