“Thank you.” It comes out softer than I mean it to. My chest is so full it almost aches. “I needed this.”
He turns to look at me, his expression is warm and unguarded. But maybe a little sad, too. “Anytime, Starling.”
I have the inexplicable urge to touch him. To sweep hair from his forehead, to hold his hand, to rest my hand on his knee. But I don’t do any of it.
I smile at him, and his lips tip up, just barely, before he pulls out of the parking area as the last light fades from the sky.
I lean my head against the window, watching the trees blur past me, and try not to think about how much I’m going to miss days like this when I’m gone.
Try not to think about how much I’m going to miss him.
Try not to think about how I only have147 days left.
SEVENTEEN
I’mmid-chorus when the track cuts off. Silence settles heavy in my headphones, and my foot bounces against the wooden rung of the stool. Waiting.Again.
This is how it goes. Six takes. Eight. Sometimes twelve. And Boone’s words, always the same: “Come on out.”
And there it is.
This time, it’s take five, and his tone says none of them worked.
With a groan, I prop my guitar against the foam walls of the sound booth, step out, and drop into a rolling chair in front of the boards.
He swivels in my direction. “What’s going on with you today?”
Oh, not much. Just unraveling. Apparently not so quietly.
Trying to sing a songyouwrote while my brain contributed one pathetic line. One.
Trying to act like I know what I’m doing, but feeling so far over my head that I’m gasping for air.
“I guess I’m just having a bad day.”
My throat is raw from singing the same lines over and over, fingers aching from gripping the guitar too tight. There’s aheadache building behind my eyes. It’s barely past noon, and I’m already exhausted.
Boone’s eyes narrow. “We only have five months left to write and record an entire album.”
I swallow. I know this.
“And I don’t have any wiggle room,” he continues. “I’ve got someone booked in right after you. June 15th, and we’re done.”
The date puts a pit in my stomach.
“You really don’t do breaks, do you?” I mumble.
“Listen. I don’t give a shit about your personal life; I care about this record. I care about putting my name on something I’m proud of.” He pauses. “You should, too.”
I nod.
“So, what’s it going to take to get you there?”
If I knew, wouldn’t I have been doing that? He acts as if this is fun for me. As if I enjoy wasting his time. And my own, for that matter.
“I don’t know.” I pick at loose threads around a rip in my jeans.
Every day since Kendra called with this incredible opportunity, I’ve been running the same mental loop: work harder, want it more, don’t waste it. I can scribble down ideas and lyrics all day, but turning them into something? The second that mic clicks on? It’s gone. I’ve got nothing.
