I despise awkward conversations, and to this day, Talia and I have never struggled to say what’s on our mind. Lawyers must inherit a weird sixth sense, because she grabs my empty cup, throws it in the trash can, and narrows her eyes at me.
“What is it? Your mood is weird, and you’re tapping your foot incessantly.”
“It’s Tate,” I blurt and immediately regret it when her face falls. “Wait, that came out wrong. He’s fine. I presume. He might not even be aware of what’s going on?—”
“Harriet. Tell me,” she interrupts, face tight. “We can stop pretending he doesn’t exist.”
With more grace and less babbling, I relay everything from the moment Tate’s song came on the radio. She doesn’t speak, and her expression hardly shifts from its impassive state.
Once I’m finished, I wait for her to digest all the information. A hundred different reactions played through my head, with her not wanting anything to do with this situation as the top contender. What I hadn’t prepared for was her indifference to hearing her husband’s name after months of avoiding it. I certainly didn’t anticipate her next move.
She whips out her phone and starts typing away furiously. “You have everything from the Copyright Office when you registered your songs?”
“Uh, yeah.” I peer at her screen. “Who are you texting?”
“A friend. He works in entertainment.” My phone buzzes in my pocket. “I’ve forwarded you his contact details. He’s expecting your call later today.”
Damn, she moves fast. “Talia, you don’t have?—”
“I’m guessing Peter doesn’t know you’re the exclusive rightsholder of the song. Or maybe he does. Either way, he’s a fucking moron.” She still hasn’t looked at me. “If you decide to proceed with an infringement suit, you’ll need proof of those rights.”
“Hey.” I cover her phone with my palm. “Can you stop for a second?”
Her hand trembles under mine.
“If this is too much for you, it’s okay.” I squeeze her fingers.
Her hazel eyes are red-rimmed when she finally glances up. “Tate wouldn’t… He wouldn’t do this if he knew the song was claimed, especially by you. We might not be together anymore, but he’s a good guy.”
“Oh, honey.” I drag her in for a hug. “I know that. We all do.”
She sniffles into my shoulder. “I want to help, but I can’t be directly involved. I’m sorry.”
Translation: she doesn’t want to risk seeing Tate.
Talia hasn’t once uttered a bad word about her estranged husband. If anything, you wouldn’t know he was a huge part of her life since they were sixteen years old.
“You’ve helped.” I rub her back. “From pestering me to register my songs to this very moment, you’ve helped tremendously.”
“Whatever I can do from the sidelines, I will.” Talia swipesangrily at her blotchy cheeks. “I bet Warren and Parker want to shish kebab his ass?”
“That’s putting it politely.”
She laughs, her pent up sadness subsiding until a fire burns in her eyes. “Let’s squash the little cockroach.”
Mentally and physically drained fromthe last thirty-six hours, I drag my feet up the path to the cottage. Talia and I went for a short walk after we decided on a strategy, talking about anything other than Tate. I then ran a few errands, got my car detailed, and paid a visit to Margot before finally coming home.
My smile fights the fatigue when I spy Warren’s truck in the driveway. A warm glow comes from the upstairs window.
“Hello?” My greeting meets a loud thump and muffledfuck.
“You’re early!”
“I’m hungry!”
“And I’ll sort that, sweetheart, but for now, stay where you are.” His voice pitches in a panic as I hear him scrambling around, followed by more cursing.
Interest piqued, I sneak up the stairs, strategically avoiding the creaky floorboards, which is difficult when you’re waddling most of the time. He’s working a twenty-four shift soon and should’ve slept most of the day. Something tells me he hasn’t from all the cardboard boxes and toolbox in the corridor.
