“Hey, Pen.”
The sound of someone typing fills the line before it comes to a stop, and I imagine Penelope leaning back in her chair as she lifts the handset. “Avery. I’ve been trying to call you.” She sounds annoyed, and I can’t really blame her, not when I’ve been avoiding her calls.
“Sorry, it’s been hectic around here,” I lie.
Penelope makes a sound in the back of her throat before saying, “It sure looks like it from the shots of you all over the internet at a BBQ. I’ve spent half my morning with the execs talking them off a ledge about you giving an unauthorized performance with a song that isn’t even released, Avery. Do you have any update for me on the songs you’re supposed to be working on?”
Guilt crashes into me like a riptide, and I stare at the blank notepad in front of me. “I’m still working on them. And if it helps, the song is one that will never be released. I wrote it years ago.”
“Hmm, well, need I remind you that you have two weeks to produce these songs, and then we need you back here to record them and prep for the tour. You have responsibilities, Avery, and I’d hope you remember that when you’re gallivanting around that town.”
I grip my phone tighter, frustration at her lack of understanding and the looming deadline adding a bite to my tone. “I won’t forget, Pen. But I can’t magic lyrics out of thin air.”
Ignoring me, Penelope says, “I have to go. Keep me updated and answer my calls in future.”
She disconnects the call, and I throw my phone onto the table in frustration. I don’t know why I expected anything different from her, like she might actually care that I need a break. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last few years since hiring her, it’s that Penelope will do anything to close a deal. If it wasn’t so hard to find a decent—at least when it comes to brokering deals—manager, I’d have fired her by now.
My eyes land on today’s local newspaper on the tabletop in front of me. An idea forms, and I pick up my cup of coffee and flick through the pages to the classifieds. One thing I know for certain is that if I’m going to stand a chance at writing these songs, I need my own space. There aren’t many options for places to rent short term in town, but I circle the few that stand out and aren’t too far out of the way.
A shadow falls across the table a moment before Autumn tops off my coffee. “Whatcha looking for?”
I forgot just how nosy people can be in this town.
Leaning back in my chair, I stare up at her, a brow cocked. She slaps my shoulder with the cloth in her hand, leaving behind a cloud of flour. Immediately, she grimaces, fanning it away as if she didn’t realize it was that dirty. It’s only when I break out into laughter that the tension leaves her body.
“You know, you are incredibly nosy,” I tease.
Autumn narrows her eyes before sliding into the seat in front of me again. “I’m just a friend, looking out for a friend.” She puts the coffeepot down before turning the newspaper around to face her. “You’re looking for a place to live? Are things not good at your parents’?” Her brows furrow when she looks up at me with nothing but concern coating her features.
“Everything is fine.” I reach over, turning the newspaper back toward me. “I just figured I could use my own place while I try to figure out if the music’s still mine. But there aren’t many choices in town.”
She rests her elbows on the table and puts her chin on her fists. “You’re really planning on staying in town for that long?”
I place a hand over my heart, gasping in mock surprise. “Do you not want me to?”
Autumn laughs, the sound carefree and light. “Of course I do, probably the most out of anyone in town that isn’t your blood, but I figured you were back for a couple of weeks, not long term. I always thought you’d moved to Nashville for good.”
“I don’t know if it will be for more than a few weeks. But as much as I love my parents, I’m thirty-five now, Autumn. I can’t live with them for more than a week. We’ll all go insane. Besides, I need the peace and quiet to concentrate, and Dad’s always fixing something, and Mama has the TV blaring.”
She tilts her head, tapping a finger on her chin. “I have an idea. There’s an apartment above the coffee shop. It needs some work, but I can get it done, and you could move in there.”
“Oh, I don’t want you to go out of your way for me.” I sniff, trying to claw back the emotion clogging my throat.
Autumn holds up her hand, halting my argument. “It’s either stay with your parents, find an apartment miles away in the next town, or stay upstairs and do the thing you told me you came home to do. I know which one I’d be choosing.” She shrugs a shoulder, as if it’s that easy.
I guess in a way she’s right; those are my options, and I know which one I’d prefer. Maybe that’s why I find myself following her upstairs and saying yes when we’ve walked through the one-bedroom apartment.
It’s small, dusty, and the floor creaks like it’s holding secrets, but it would be mine. And after over a decade of chasing something that I’m starting to think never really fit, I finally feel like I’m building something just for me. Even if it’s not forever.
15
GRAYSON
From my position in the paddock near the barn, I spot Autumn’s truck racing down the long, winding driveway toward the house. A cloud of dust follows in her wake, and I shake my head because I know she’ll have her music blasting and the windows down as she sings along. No matter how many times I tell her, it’s always the same.
We might be the same age, but we’re poles apart in many aspects. I’m damn proud of her for following her dreams and opening up the coffee shop, but outside of that, she shies away from any sense of responsibility. She’s luxuriating in her youth, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous that she can.
Pot, meet kettle.
