“You’re hiding.” She pulls a tablet from her bag and starts scrolling. “The label is getting nervous. Your last album went platinum, which means they want another one. Preferably before the public forgets you exist.”
“I’ve been gone three months.”
“In this industry, that’s a lifetime. You know that.” She sets down the tablet. “There’s a meeting on Friday. New album timeline, potential tour dates, some sponsorship opportunities that are frankly too lucrative to ignore. You need to be there.”
“I’m working on new material.”
“Here?”
“Yes, here.” I pour a cup I don’t want, just to avoid looking at her. “I’ve written more in the past two weeks than I have in the past year. Twin Waves is good for me.”
“Is Twin Waves good for you, or is the woman good for you?”
I go still. “Who told you about?—”
“Please. I’ve been your manager for eight years. I know when someone’s involved.” Diane’s voice softens. “I also know that last time, you wroteDistance, which made us both a lot of money. So I’m not unsympathetic.”
“Then let me stay.”
“It’s not that simple. They?—”
“Can wait.”
“Levi.” She stands, crossing to the window, looking out at the ocean view she’s so thoroughly unimpressed by. “I’m going to be honest with you. The label is considering other options. You’re not the only artist on their roster, and you’ve been…difficult lately.”
“Difficult how?”
“Refusing meetings, ignoring calls, disappearing to a town called—” She glances at her phone. “Twin Waves, which I had to Google three times to find.”
“It’s not that small.”
“The airport didn’t have a Starbucks.”
“That’s not a measure of civilization.”
“It’s a measure of something.” She turns back to me. “Here’s the deal. You come to the meeting on Friday. You sit in a room with some executives. You smile, you nod, you tell them you’re working on new material and you’re excited about thefuture. Two hours, maybe three. Then you can come back here and continue…whatever this is.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then they start having conversations without you—about timelines, contractual obligations.” She pauses. “About whether you’re still the artist they want to invest in.”
The coffee maker beeps. I pour two cups, hand her one, and lean against the counter.
“I’m not leaving her again,” I say quietly.
Diane’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m not asking you to leave her. I’m asking you to take a meeting. One day. Maybe two. Then you return.”
“The last time I went, everything fell apart.”
“The last time you left, you were grieving your father and in love with someone who wasn’t ready.” She sips her coffee. “Are you sure she’s ready now?”
The question lands harder than I want it to.
Am I sure? Delilah said she was done running. She promised. But last night at dinner, when I told her about the meeting, she said “you should go” with an expression I couldn’t read. And then Penelope showed up with her poison comments, and something in Delilah’s eyes shuttered closed.
“She’s ready,” I say.
Diane doesn’t look convinced. But she nods, sets down her coffee cup, and picks up her bag.
