“Stop.” I grip her knee. “You aremorethan enough.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually.” My voice comes out rough. “I’ve heard you sing. I’ve watched you work yourself to exhaustion every day for weeks. I’ve seen you pour everything you have into this.”
I lean closer, making sure she’s looking at me when I say, “You’re a fucking gift to anyone lucky enough to know you, Starling. Boone’s a fool if he can’t see it.”
She bites her bottom lip, but holds my gaze as she nods.
“Boone’s right though. The song is missing that raw, lived-in truth. All good love songs have it.” She settles into the cushions,her fingers tracing absent patterns on the fabric. “I don’t think I was actually in love when I wrote it… I thought I was, but I’m not so sure now. It was a long time ago.”
The relief that moves through me is immediate, and I have no right to it.
I started counting the days. I’m not sure when it became a habit, only that each morning I wake up one closer to her leaving, and the dread is getting harder to ignore.
148 of them left.
I nod slowly, not trusting myself to speak.
She pulls her knees up to her chest. “Thank you. For this. For listening.”
“Always.” The word comes out like a promise. And I realize I mean it.
I clear my throat, then curse myself for doing it. “You have off tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah, thank God.” She runs a hand down Grace’s back, and the cat arches into it. “I need a day to emotionally recover.”
She needs a break. Needs to remember there’s more to life than that studio and Boone’s impossible standards.
“Can I take you skating?”
She raises a brow. “Don’t you remember how that went last time?”
I chuckle. I wish I remembered more of that day. But I was too wrapped up in my own head, still recovering from my injury, blinded by studio lights, and the chaos of a film set.
I wish I’d really seen her back then.
“This’ll be better,” I promise. “Trust me?”
Her gaze moves across my face. “Yeah,” she finally says.
Then softer: “I trust you.”
SIXTEEN
The knockon my door comeswaytoo early.
I burrow deeper into the pillow, pulling the comforter over my head.
Another soft rap sounds.
I squint at my phone. 10:47 a.m.Okay, maybe not that early.
“Summer?” Miles’s voice carries through the door. “You awake?”
I push the comforter off with a huff. “Barely.”
“Can I come in?”
