Tryeverything.
Fear, disappointment, failure.
That I’m wasting my one shot. That the girl who sang covers in dive bars for tip money doesn’t actually have what it takes to make it.
That wanting Miles will distract me. Take my focus away from my music.
The way he held me when I came home crying, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. The way he looked at me on that frozen pond and said he liked seeing me happy. How he shows up for me in all the little ways. Every day.
The fact that I’m counting each one.136 left. I’m both desperate for time to slow down and terrified it won’t matter anyway.
But what if Boone’s right? What if good art requires feelingeverything? What if the thing holding me back isn’t lack of talent or timing or the perfect execution, but that I keep flinching away from the very thing I need to lean into? Maybe the only waythrough is straight at it. Even if that’s terrifying. Even if I’m not sure I’ll survive it.
“You taking the afternoon off, or are you getting back to work?” Boone’s voice cuts through.
“Let’s get back to work,” I say, because, despite every instinct telling me to keep it all locked up, I didn’t come this far to quit at the last hurdle.
“You gonna feel something and let it out?” he challenges.
“I sure as heck hope so.”
It comes out too honest to hide behind a smile.
What aren’t you letting out?
Boone’s words continue to ring in my ears all afternoon and into my drive to Mia’s place.
The session after our talk went differently. I stopped trying to control every note and let the rawness in. Stopped hiding behind technique and just… felt it. Boone still didn’t smile—I’m not sure the man knows how—but when I finished the last take, he said, “That’s it. That’s the one.”
Hours of hell for four words of praise. I’ll take it.
The problem is, now I’m drained. And I have to do it again tomorrow. And the day after that. Until we have enough songs for an entire album.
I sit in my truck outside Mia’s brownstone for a full five minutes before I make myself move.
Every nerve in my body is screaming to go home, curl up in bed, regroup in private, the way I always have. But I promised Mia I’d come tonight. And maybe… maybe this’ll be good. Maybe I don’twantto process everything alone anymore.
And Miles isn’t home. Which is why the girls are getting together to watch their away game.
I kill the engine, slam the door, and hurry up the steps. After ringing the bell, I stomp my boots on the mat, knocking off a dusting of snow.
Mia pulls open the door, her cheeks flushed pink.
“You’ve had wine, haven’t you?” I tease. She’s never been a big drinker, but since dating Dominic and learning his reasons for not drinking, she usually skips it. Tonight must be an exception.
“I’m such a lightweight.” She giggles, but her eyes stay on me, searching. Her smile falters. “Hey. You okay?”
“I’m fine.” I force brightness into my voice.
“Oh, no, not the ‘f’ word.”
“C’mon.” I step inside before she can push it further.
She doesn’t look convinced, but she takes my coat and hangs it in the closet. “Everyone’s in here. Let me introduce you.”
I follow her through the house and into the kitchen. Hannah, who I recognize from her visit to the show with Ryan, stands with a woman who could be Emmy Rossum’s twin—if Emmy had the kind of curves I would sell a kidney for. A boy, maybe ten, tugs on her elbow. And perched on a stool across from them is a woman with red hair so bright it makes my auburn look dull by comparison.
“You’ve met Hannah, my brother’s girlfriend—” Mia starts, but Hannah cuts her off, holding up her left hand. The vintage diamond glints as she grins. “Fiancée,” she corrects.
