“You cried during the key change.”
“It’s an emotional song.”
Dean is sitting in the corner with his head in his hands. “I can’t believe this is my life.”
“You’re marrying my mother,” Asher says cheerfully. “Welcome to your future.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“She’s going to make you do karaoke at the wedding reception. You know that, right?”
Dean’s groan is audible from across the room.
“I didn’t propose,” Tommy says, apparently still stuck on an earlier conversation. “I asked if he was seeing anyone. Those are different things.”
“He’s seeing someone,” Dean says. “So everyone calm down.”
“Who?” Josh perks up. “Is it that flower shop lady? The one who just moved back?”
“How does everyone know everything in this town?” I ask.
“Small town,” all four firefighters say in unison.
“Also, Brittany at the gym told everyone,” Tommy adds. “She saw you two at the coffee shop. Said you looked at each other like—and I’m quoting here—‘two people who were about to either kiss or kill each other.’”
“They went with kissing,” Dean says dryly.
“Nice.” Tommy holds up his hand for a high-five. I leave him hanging, which doesn’t seem to bother him at all. “She’s cute. The florist. You should bring her to the firehouse cookout next month.”
“A firehouse cookout?”
“Always.” Josh shrugs. “This town runs on gossip and outdoor grilling. Those are the two food groups.”
I’m about to respond when my phone rings.
Not buzzes. Rings. The actual ringtone I set for emergencies, which Diane has apparently decided this now qualifies as.
“Sorry,” I mutter, stepping toward the garage. “I have to take this.”
The garage is cooler, quieter, the smell of diesel sharper away from the coffee and burned popcorn of the common room. I lean against one of the trucks and answer.
“Diane.”
“Oh good, you remember my name.” Her voice is crisp, professional, and radiating fury. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten, given that you’ve ignored my last fifteen calls.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Busy doing what? Playing beach bum in a town that doesn’t show up on most maps?”
“It shows up on maps. It’s a real place.”
“Levi.” She exhales, and I can picture her pinching the bridge of her nose in her sleek LA office, surrounded by gold records and photos of clients far less difficult than me. “The label meeting is coming up. They’re not going to wait forever.”
“Then they can meet without me.”
“That’s not how this works. You’re the artist. You’re the one they need to see, to talk to, to reassure that you’re not having some kind of breakdown in—where are you again?”
“Twin Waves.”
