I wouldn’t say it. I couldn’t.
Removing her hands from my face, I walked away.
Past the gate. Under the streetlight. Across the street. Down the hill.
All I could hear were Grace’s screams.
PARTIII
THE BRIDGE
31
GRACE: SOPHOMORE SLUMP
PRESENT DAY
Iwas a fraud. There, I said it. My whole life I’d fancied myself a songwriter, but I wasn’t. Not even close. “Promises” had been a fluke. Beginner’s luck. And now everyone thought I was some high-quality musical poet when I’d be hard-pressed to write a coherent grocery list.
I laid my head back on the chair, gripping the armrest and drawing in deep breaths in an effort to slow my heart rate. If I was going to have a full-on meltdown, it wasn’t going to be high above the fly-over states.
“Are you leaving or coming home?”
I glanced over at the woman seated beside me. Big eyes. Sweet face. She was trying to console me, no doubt assuming I was afraid of flying. I almost wanted to laugh. Crashing was the least of my worries. Honestly, that would be a relief. In three weeks’ time, I would be on a bus touring North America with the hottest new band in town, tasked with helping them write their second album. And I had nothing. My notebook was empty save for the hundreds and hundreds of stupid, half-assed ideas I’d thought were inspired in the moment but would amount to nothing.
“Coming home.” I forced a smile. “What about you?”
“Leaving. My husband and I are celebrating our ten-year anniversary. Going to do the whole touristy thing. Hollywood. Disneyland.”
I looked around for this husband of hers, one that would match her sweetness and energy, but saw no one who fit the bill. “Is he on the plane?”
“In the back.”
“So, you’re sitting in first class, and he’s in the back?”
She laughed. “It’s an anniversary, not a honeymoon.”
My seat partner went on to explain her husband earned the seat through mileage points from work travel, but there was only enough for one upgrade and he’d given it to her. Aw. That, right there, was love. My blood pressure leveled off. Pulling my notebook out of my backpack, I jotted down my thoughts about such marital sacrifice. You never knew what seedling could flourish into a song, and god knows, I needed a garden. It was the entire reason I’d made the trip to New York in the first place—for inspiration. To write a damn song.
My intentions were good when I dropped Elliott off at the airport and hopped on a flight of my own to New York City. The idea was to devote my days to writing, and, oh man, I was so gung ho that first day, sealing myself off in the rented tiny studio apartment, fully prepared to practice brutalizing tough love. No fun of any kind until the creativity flowed! That was my motto. It lasted one day. The rest of the time was spent staring at the empty notebook and watching HGTV. Nights were just as unproductive. I went to musicals or walked the touristy streets or visited local venues to listen to bands play—anything I could think of to spark my brain to produce something creative. But nothing happened, and my fear grew.
It had seemed so simple: tap into the magic that made “Promises” a hit, and everything would fall into place. But that was easier said than done, especially considering I hadn’t written anything magical in years. I’d penned “Promises” when I was seventeen. Not that I’d told anyone that. The music industry thought I was a contemporary songwriter with fresh ideas, not a has-been who stole songs from the old notebooks of a teenage girl.
Like Rory had predicted, I’d found my muse in Ray Davis, the man who lived in my head. But those songs were dark and personal, with no commercial value. My current songs were lighter but had no bite. “Promises” had been a happy medium between the two, and that was what I was trying—and failing miserably—to recreate now. The clock was ticking. If I screwed up my big break, I feared there would be no second chance.
Certainly not with Sketch Monsters, who were going to fall into the dreaded sophomore slump all because of me. The curse of the second album was real, and widely feared in the industry. The first album gave a glimpse of a band’s artistry, but it was the follow-up record that either cemented them as a force to be reckoned with or one whose days were numbered. Sketch Monsters was going to slump, and it would all be my fault. My pulse raced at just the thought of being the reason for their fall.
Stop!I was putting way too much pressure on myself… as well as credit. I hadn’t been hired to write Sketch Monsters’ new album. My job was to work side by side with Quinn to help bringhisideas to life, not mine. I wasn’t that damn important. I had to keep reminding myself.Grace.You don’t mean shit.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking this,” the wife beside me said. “But are you related totheMcKallisters? I overheard the flight attendant call you Miss McKallister. I didn’t really think that much about it until I realized you do actually look like you could be one of them.”
One of ‘them’? Like we were a species all our own. Most families of celebrities existed in the background, but we were a special case. It had to do a lot with the kidnapping and the notoriety that came with it, but there were other things. Kyle’s turn on a survival reality show. Emma marrying actor Finn Perry. Quinn’s unexpected rise to fame. Then there was the exposé a few years back—a reporter digging into my mother’s past discovered that her maiden name matched that of one of the wealthiest hotel moguls in America, and a juicy story of disownment followed. All of which had combined to make “McKallister” a household name, and that was why my seat partner was now staring at me expectantly. I considered lying, but why bother? If my New York trip was any indication, my last name would forever be my only claim to fame.
“I’m the baby sister. Grace,” I said.
Her excitement was palpable, but to her credit, she kept it under control.
“You must have had the most interesting life.”
