It was onlya matter of time before we hit a bump in the road.
Blame the skeptic in me.
Harriet, deservingly so, was spoiled at the baby shower. We both were, but she’s putting in the hard work and should take the credit. Trunk filled to the brim with gifts, I drive Harriet, Margot, and Willow home to Iris Meadows. Johanna had a rental car delivered to the hotel and is meeting us at the cottage.
They chat animatedly, Harriet in the passenger seat, twisting toward Margot to ask advice about breast pumps. Her hand rests on my thigh, flexing anytime she laughs or gets excited. These casual touches are my favorites, the ones behind closed doors, when she’s spread out for me to feast or sits in my lap while watching TV.
“Your nieces are adorable. It makes me miss when Willow was that size.” Margot pinches her daughter’s cheek, who lightly swats her mom’s hand away.
“Jo makes it look easy. I wish we lived closer so our kids could grow up together.”
I trap her hand with my free one. “We’ll take lots of trips to see them. Don’t worry.”
The song on the radio changes, and Willow grins in my rearview. “Oh! I love this song! Turn it up.”
I spin the dial, and a man’s smooth, resonant vocals silences everyone. Willow bops her head, lip-syncing along to the lyrics. Harriet and Margot share an incredulous look.
“Who’s this? Do we not like him?” I ask quietly, though not quiet enough for Willow’s sonic hearing.
“EveryonelovesTate Brooks. Did you know he used to work with Harriet and Parker? He’s stupidly famous now.”
Harriet winces.
Margot nudges her daughter. “Willow, don’t forget what we discussed.”
“Yes, I know, Mom.”
“What am I missing here?” My eyes dart between the two women when we stop at a red light.
I couldn’t care less about celebrity gossip. The Beatles could reunite, and I’d be the last to know, but there’s something suspicious about the way they skirt around the answer.
Harriet breaks. “We’re not exactly Tate Brooks’s number one fans. He’s not a bad guy. It’s just more girl code. We don’t—wait!” She shoots forward, hands outstretched as she squints at the radio. “Everyone be quiet for a second.”
The truck is silent, apart from the riff of a guitar and Tate Brooks’s voice.
When the song increases in tempo, Harriet points at the speaker wildly. “There! The chorus! Willow, when did this song release?”
“Um, I think it’s from his new album. Maybe last week.”
“Harry, what’s going on?” Margot asks warily.
A car honks behind me, and I raise my hand in apology before pulling onto the side of the road.
“Do you remember when those publishers accused me of plagiarizing another artist’s work and wouldn’t disclose who?”
I nod with Margot.
“They were talking about Tate Brooks! Only, I didn’t steal his songs. He stole mine!”
Women’s loyaltynever ceases to amaze me, and it continues to do so when Parker arrives at the cottage, pitchfork at the ready, to join in the chaos going on in Harriet’s living room. I’m not sure what Talia’s issue is with this Tate guy, but I’m guessing it’s the reason for her absence.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
Johanna has taken the girls out for dinner, and Willow is upstairs watching TV, giving Harriet the headspace to unravel this shit show.
She’s currently sitting on the sofa, massaging her temples with her feet in my lap while Tate’s song plays on repeat. We’ve listened to it no less than a hundred times and compared it to the one and only recording Harriet has of what she’s claiming to be the original.
No one challenged her accusation, because what would she gain? There was the slight chance this was pure coincidence. The theory flew out of the window when we compared the choruses, and Harriet explained she recorded her video over a year ago, only sharing it with one person.
