I prefer shadows, because maybe they’re you
Back from the gallows, but that isn’t true—
About halfway through, I muster the bravery to glance at Harry. He’s staring at my phone in rapt awe, his eyes glazed.
When the song ends, Folly offers me a pitying look. “And yet you say you have no songs about having your heart broken?”
“It doesn’t count,” I grind out. “We weren’t reallytogether.”
“That’s your best song, Paige,” Harry says.
“Yeah,” I say bitterly.
“It’s a heartbreaking song.”
“Yeah.”
He grabs my shoulders. “You know I love you, right?”
I nod.
“I wouldn’t tell you to do this if I didn’t think you could handle it.”
I nod again, watching him.
“I think you should write more songs like that one. And I think you should do whatever it takes to write them.”
Whatever it takes.
Could I put myself through that? Falling in love, just for the sake of my music? For the sake of writing songs about the giddiness of a crush, the weighted swooping in my belly as it turns into something more meaningful, the painful ache once I’ve offered all of myself to someone and it doesn’t work anyway, because it was never going to?
Which would certainly happen if it’s Liam we’re talking about; he doesn’t keep long-term partners and never has, present company included.
Is putting myself through an entire relationship cycle for twelve to fifteen songsinsane?
It is.
It’s objectively insane.
I think I have to try.
The clouds part, and a plan begins to form. Ever since I answered Paul’s phone call this morning, I’ve been operating on autopilot.Act now, think later.With my two favorite free spirits in the room to guide me.
“I need to go back to CMA Fest.”
Finding tickets online is an expensive breeze. Ground floor tonight instead of the nosebleeds, since Liam works near the stage. In the photos he or his friends or coworkers post, he’s always down in the thick of it, wearing a headset and a heart-stopping grin.
“Yeehaw!” Folly shrieks while Harry cackles behind us, bringing up the rear.
The three of us race through the football stadium concourse, two of us wine drunk, all three of us effervescent. We each chuggedsomethingbefore we pulled ourselves up by our bootstraps and bolted out the door.
“This is nuts!” I shout, still running. “I should just text him!”
“Texting doesnothingfor the plot!” Folly shouts back. “This whole scheme is for the plot!”
“Should you be running in your condition?” Harry calls to her.
“I’m supposed to do what feels good, and this feels exceptional!” she calls back.
