Her fingers coast down my jaw until her thumb rests in the divot of my chin. My fingers flex, needing to feel the warmth of her silky skin. God, I’ve never ached for someone as much as I do her.
A meteor strike couldn’t force me to move in this moment.
We could pretend the world outside this tiny bathroom doesn’t exist. No past or present, just the now. I could kiss her. She could kiss me back. I could lay her out on her messy bed. She could help me escape again.
Could but shouldn’t.
The night we shared in October will have to suffice. It has to.
Harriet swipes her thumb over my top lip, her voice raspy, skating over my skin until goose bumps rise. “All done.”
And I’m undone, an unraveled mess of tattered strings and broken pieces.
I rise, careful not to touch her.
“I need to clean your face.” She goes to grab a washcloth, but I get there first. I’m moving sharply, hands trembling. This was idiotic of me.
“I can do it. You did a great job.” I haven’t even looked in the mirror.
She blinks at my dismissive tone. “Of course. Any time.”
This can’t happen again. Friends don’t do this. I’m ready to hightail it out of here, face a mess or not. A reaction she doesn’t deserve. She’s being kind, and here I am again, reacting shitty.
“Thank you for helping. It’s not that I don’t appreciate it.” I stare at my feet, not wanting to see disappointment in her eyes again.
“I get it. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.” She brushes past me and pauses inside the doorway. “I’ll miss the beard, but I also hope you return to full duties, so I better get used to it. Thank you for dropping off the clothes.”
She goes to make her escape, only I catch her by the wrist before she can disappear. “Good luck with your meeting tomorrow. Text me how it goes?”
“You remembered?”
I shrug as if it’s no big deal. The real truth: there isn’t anything about Harriet I’d ever forget.
THIRTY-THREE
HARRIET
TWENTY-TWO WEEKS PREGNANT
“I’m goingto be honest with you, Miss Thomas. We’re searching for a fresh take on country, and while your style is different, we’ve heard it before.” The woman across from me links her fingers and casts me a pitying look.
I’ve never claimed to reinvent the wheel with my lyrics, and while the feedback itself isn’t mean, it doesn’t lessen the blow.
Her counterpart has hardly said a word throughout the entire meeting. They asked me to bring in two short sample recordings. While my networking and time in the industry are lacking, I’d hoped the small buzz from my socials over the last couple of months would help.
It’s not like I expected immediate representation, and this is the furthest I’ve gotten, so I’m trying to see the silver lining.
My smile is polite. “Of course. I understand and really appreciate the opportunity to meet with you both today. I’dlike to send you some samples in the future that maybe more of what you’re looking for.”
The second woman finally speaks. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Oh.” Her response catches me off guard. “Sure.”
They stand, and I follow suit, offering them both a clammy handshake. “Thanks for your time.”
“Some advice. Stealing work from other artists is typically frowned upon. The industry talks and doesn’t take lightly to plagiarism. You’ll get yourself a reputation before you’ve even started.”
Plagiarism?
