Warren: Home. I like the sound of that.
Harriet: Good, because we’re keeping you.
Harriet: Do you know what I like the sound of…
Warren: Which flavor?
Harriet: Fruity Pebbles, please!
Warren: *picture holding a cantaloupe*
Warren: Kid’s getting big!
Harriet: Warren, please. I have to push them out of myvagina.
Harriet: Also, I’ve given up on wearing socks.
Warren: I’ll be there in ten minutes to help you.
Harriet: Thank you :(
Warren: Call me when you’re done.
Harriet: I’m going to pee my pants. Mostly from nerves, but your child is going to town on my bladder. I’m worried I’ll say something stupid, though peeing myself is also a strong possibility.
Warren: You’ve got this, sweetheart. Like Steven said, you don’t need to say anything unless you want to.
Harriet: We’ve both got big days ahead. Good luck speaking with Marcus. I know he’ll support you.
Harriet: I love you.
Warren: I love you too. When you get home, your favorite record will be playing, and there’ll be a bubble bath with your name on it.
Harriet: You’re the best.
SIXTY-THREE
HARRIET
As much asI wanted to dress up for the occasion, being almost thirty-eight weeks demanded comfy pants and a loose top, and thanks to the heatwave we’re experiencing, I don’t regret my decision. I also don’t bat an eyelid when we enter the conference room and all three men in suits stare at me in surprise.
Third trimester equals zero fucks to give.
Nashville skyline dazzles under the clear blue sky through the floor to ceiling windows. Golden records decorate the walls, and a man sits in the corner, laptop at the ready to take minutes, I presume.
I knew Peter wouldn’t be here, though it would’ve been fun to watch him squirm in his seat as Steven tears him a new one. In the words of my lawyer, “We’ve got this.” Our case is airtight, and it’s crystal clear Peter wrongfully used my songs and god knows how many others.
Tate also isn’t here, which isn’t surprising. He’s probably too busy, or they didn’t deem his attendance necessary. I wonder if he knows I’m the poor artist his record label pilfered from.
“Harriet, this is Connor Vance, CEO of Vance Records.” Steven introduces me to a man with thick black hair.
“Miss Thomas. Thank you for coming in. Please, take a seat.” His southern accent is comforting, but it could be a trap, so I nod politely and accept the chair Steven pulls out for me. It takes me longer than necessary to sit, thanks to the tightening in my stomach, and yes, I grunt when my butt hits the cushioned seat.
“Mr. Vance. Nice to meet you.”
Steven gestures to the other two gentlemen. “Owen Purcell, Vance Records’ legal advisor, and Howard Andrews, the label manager, here on behalf of Mr. Brooks and representative of the label.”
I’m a guppy in a giant fishbowl filled with big wigs who probably make my daily salary in an hour. They all seem friendly enough, and while Steven holds all confidence we’ll settle today and there’ll be no need to go to court, I’m not fooled just yet.
