“It was literally calledDistance. The album art was you staring at rain.”
“That was artistic.”
“That was tragic. This—” He gestures at my notebook. “This sounds like you actually want to be alive.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just sit there, guitar in my lap, watching the waves roll in.
My phonebuzzes again.
Dean glances at it. “You gonna get that?”
“It’s just Diane.”
“Your manager Diane? The one who calls when there’s a problem?”
“No problem.”
“She’s called twelve times this morning.”
“Diane’s dramatic.”
Dean gives me a look—the same one our dad used to give when I was clearly lying and we both knew it.
“Fine,” I mutter. “The label wants me back for a meeting. I told them no.”
“And they’re not taking no for an answer.”
“They’ll have to.”
“Will they?”
I set down my guitar harder than necessary. “I just got her back, Dean. I’m not leaving.”
“Nobody’s saying you have to leave forever. It’s a meeting.”
“It’s never just a meeting. It’s studio sessions, then a tour, then two years of my life swallowed up by—” I stop. Breathe. “I’m not doing that again. Not now.”
Dean doesn’t respond right away. When he speaks, his voice is gentler than I expect.
“You know what Dad used to say about runningfrom your problems?”
“That I should face them head-on?”
“No. He said running from your problems is fine, as long as you’re faster than they are.” Dean grins. “Dad was not a great advice-giver.”
“I remember.”
“Point is—you can’t outrun Diane forever. And you definitely can’t outrun the label. So maybe deal with it before it deals with you.”
I know he’s right. I hate it.
“Come to the station with me,” Dean says, standing. “I’ve got a shift, but the guys have been asking about you. Apparently Tommy’s kid is a big fan.”
“Tommy has a kid?”
“Three of them. You’ve been gone a while.”
I look at my guitar, at the pages full of half-finished lyrics, at the ocean still doing its thing, completely unbothered.
