And the only reason she was sitting in this studio at all, the only reason she'd begun writing an entire album's worth of material in the past few weeks, was because of Annabelle.
Something about Annabelle had made it okay to try again. To pick up a guitar and risk writing something terrible. To let someone see her without all the armor she usually wore.
Annabelle had made her feel safe.
No. It was more than that.
Annabelle had made her feel loved.
Not loved in the desperate, consuming way she'd loved Alissa, where every emotion was turned up to eleven and nothing ever felt stable. But loved in a way that was steady and sure and somehow made Raven want to be better. Want to try harder. Want to stay instead of run.
"You still there?" Arty asked.
"Yeah. I'm here."
"And?"
"And I think I've been an idiot."
"Progress."
"I need to… I need to do something. Something to show her that I'm not just running away again. Something that proves I'm actually trying to see this through."
"What did you have in mind?"
An idea was forming. Hazy at first, then sharper. Something that would require her to be vulnerable in exactly the way she'd been avoiding her entire life. Something that would be absolutely terrifying and possibly a complete disaster.
But also something that might actually work.
"I'm not sure yet," Raven said slowly. "But I think… I think I know what I need to do."
"Good. Now get off the floor and go do it."
"I'm still in the middle of a recording session."
"So finish the session. Then go." Arty paused. "For what it's worth, Raven, I think you're doing the right thing. Scary as hell, but right."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it. And Raven?"
"Yeah?"
"She loves you. Not the rockstar, not the Grammy winner. Just you. Don't forget that."
The call ended, and Raven sat there for another moment, phone still pressed to her ear.
Then she stood up, brushed the dust off her jeans, and walked back into the studio.
Jem looked up from the sound board. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah," Raven said, picking up her guitar. "Actually, I think it might be. Let's finish this track. I've got somewhere I need to be."
"Another session?"
"Something like that."
She settled back onto the sofa, fingers finding the strings, and for the first time in a week, she felt the music flowwithout resistance. Because she wasn't running anymore. She was choosing. Both the music and Annabelle. The career and the village and the ridiculous, wonderful woman who baked lemon biscuits and believed that everything would work out fine in the end.
