She pulls back just enough to look at me, tears streaming down her face. “I love you.”
The air leaves my lungs, worse than a hit that lands me hard on the ice. “I love you, too. So fucking much.” My voice scratches.
I kiss her.
My tongue parts her lips, and I try to etch every detail of her mouth, of the feel of her in my arms, of the small sounds she makes, into my memory. Her hands slide into my hair. Mine grip her hips.
I need this. Need to remember what it feels like to hold her.
Because in a few minutes, I won’t be able to.
“Ask me to stay,” she whispers when she pulls back, her breath coming fast.
Everything in me wants to.
The words are right there.
Stay.
Please stay.
But I swallow it down.
“I promised I wouldn’t ask you to.” I grasp the nape of her neck, letting my forehead rest against hers. I blink until my vision clears.
I kiss her temple and make myself say the hardest word of my life.
“Go.”
FORTY
I blinkagainst the too-bright stage lights, still not used to them.
“Let’s take it from the bridge again,” the musical director calls from the floor.
I nod, adjusting the mic stand.
The band counts off. Guitar. Bass. Drums. Keyboard. More professional and polished than anything I’ve ever performed with. Heck, until now, it’s been mostly me and my guitar. Maybe the bar’s house band, if I was lucky.
I come in on cue, hitting the note clean.
But the director stops us halfway through. “Good, but I need more emotion. You’re telling a story here. Make us believe it.”
I try again.
And again.
By the fourth run-through, my throat is getting scratchy. Forget emotion, I’m not sure I even know what the song’s about anymore.
Paula wasn’t kidding about the schedule being grueling. Most days, I go home with the satisfying kind of exhaustion, the kind that comes with a sense of accomplishment. Today’s not one of those days.
“Better,” the director says. “Let’s take lunch.”
I step off the stage, grabbing my water bottle from the equipment table.
Three weeks in LA.
Three weeks of ten-hour rehearsal days. Vocal coaches and choreography, because, apparently, even standing mostly still needs practice. Wardrobe fittings. Photo shoots. One dinner out with Cash, which Spencer was right about—the paparazzi ate it right up.
