Alex swallows. “Do the gig.”
I frown, confused. “What?”
“Do the fucking gig, Annalise. It’s clearly what you want.”
Itiswhat I want.
But I want something else too.
I want his support. His respect. I want him to see that my dreams are worth pursuing, not something he throws back at me like an accusation.
“Alex—”
He turns away, storms into the bedroom.
The door slams so hard, the walls rattle, and I flinch.
My eyes pan down to the papers strewn across the carpet.
Music. Thailand.
Two different worlds. Two different lives. Pulling, calling, reaching. Filling separate pieces of my heart.
Both could be the death of me.
I just don’t know which death will hurt more.
***
A text comes through the next day, somewhere between refilling water glasses and mopping up a syrup spill.
Chase:Working on the setlist. Thoughts?
I scan the list. There are enough songs to fill three hours.
“Can I get another coffee, darling?” a man asks as I linger near the jukebox.
I force a smile. Nod.
Then I send a short reply.
Me:Looks good.
Two minutes later, another text.
Chase:You okay?
A knot tightens in my chest, heat pooling behind my ribs.
Me:Yup. See you tonight.
I slip into the break room and shove my phone into my purse.
It pings again.
I don’t check.
***
