“You’re bleeding.” I nod at her hands, ripping off towel sheets to soak up the spillage.
“I asked Vinny if I could borrow his shucking gloves to clean this up.” A corner of her mouth lifts as she glances at the oyster guy she’s currently fucking, who winks at her salaciously from behind the icy oyster tray and a pane of glass. “But he wanted me to hurt.”
“Ew! Folly, it was free to say nothing.”
“I’mjoking, Paige.” She rolls her eyes with heavy exaggeration. “This pregnant woman isn’t allowed to have a pain kink for at least four more months.”
“Go get bandaged up,” I mutter, sweeping the glass into a pile and shooing her bare hands away from the mess. “There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom.”
Folly’s gaze moves over me. Her eyes are misty green, her curly brown hair pulled back in a messy bun. A full smile catches on her face. “Your voice sounds weird.”
“Words every musician dreams of hearing.”
“I should record you singing at home later. I bet you’d sound smoky and moody and just like Amy Winehouse.”
I tsk. “There’s only one Amy Winehouse.”
“Folly!” Our gazes cut up to our manager. “That’s the second time this week.” His thick unibrow wrinkles with anger. “Quit gossiping with your sister and put in a fresh drink order.”
As Folly rises with an unbothered smirk and waltzes off, my eyes linger on the baby bump just beginning to show around her lower stomach.
Folly can’t afford to lose this job. The clientele here tips better than most other restaurants in the area (mainly thanks to the hot oyster guys, who offer incredibly flirtatious shucking tutorials), and she needs all the money she can get for newborn expenses.
Problem is, Folly doesn’t think like that. She’s forgetful and impulsive and flighty—which means I’m the one booking her doctor’s appointments, making lists of foods she isn’t supposed to eat, researching when she needs to stop having sex (never, apparently?), and shooing her hands away from broken glass.
I clean up the mess and put in the mimosa order for table six. My courage to head back over with a written specials menu is still being mustered when my phone pings.
Not just any ping!
Theping. The sound I set up for my songwriting email address. The sound I hardly ever hear.
My muscles stiffen, my brain going numb. Woodenly, I walk toward the hallway near the bathrooms and yank my phone out of my jeans.
It’s a reply to an email I sent months ago. I quickly skim my original note.
Dear Mr. Friedman,
My name is Paige Lancaster, and I’m a soon-to-be twenty-five-year-old Nashville-based songwriter looking to sign with a music publisher. I majored in Songwriting at Belmont University and will graduate next month. At the link below, you’ll find two recorded demos highlighting my work. I’ve also included a reference from a mutual connection of ours.
It would be an honor to partner with a music publisher as prestigious as Stillwater.
All my best,
Paige Lancaster
A shudder rolls through me as I reread. It never gets less awkward pitching myself no matter how many times I’ve had to do it. I learned halfway through college it’s a painful but necessary part of the job—a realization that came after I lost out on the best internships because I’d been too shy to promote myself, to demand to be heard. Now, I bear it as a necessary evil.
The reply from Paul Friedman is only one line:Is now a good time to call?
No, Paul Friedman! Now is not a good time to call!
Absolutely, I type back, my fingers shaking, and hit send before I can overthink it.
Folly comes out of the bathroom then, fiddling with the bandage over her thumb. When our eyes lock, her sisterly intuition cranks.
“What is it?”
I bite my lip and mutter, “Stillwater Music.”
