Page 62 of The Song We Lost

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chapter 17

luke

. . .

Ihadn't seen Bailey since the day I was served our divorce papers, since her birthday, our seventh wedding anniversary. I'd seen plenty of her, it seemed like Bailey was everywhere. But when I closed my eyes I saw her standing in front of me with Jackson fucking Reed standing between us, protectingmywife... fromme.

The rest of July felt like my own private kind of hell, all heat and noise and aftermath.

I had thought that maybe August would soften her. Eventually she would calm down and we could talk.

Was she really willing to throw us away?

No! I couldn't believe that this was it. That we would never be together again. But August is demanding and hungry. August is when people started acting like I’m something they’ve been waiting for. The calls change tone first. We are no longer chasing, people are coming to us asking what I want to do next.

Dave’s excitement makes my skin itch. Talking faster. Smiling wider. Saying my name like he's already cashed it in.

“You’re getting traction,” he tells me for the hundredth time, pacing my hotel room. “Real traction. The timing’s not ideal, but the momentum? Unmatched.”

The timing is my marriage imploding. But he doesn’t say that part out loud.

I don’t answer him. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, bottle in my hand, scrolling through my phone. Bailey’s face is everywhere, her smile, her laugh... Just… there.

On stage, withsomeone else.

Working on a massive collaboration withhim.

All the things she wanted from me. All the things people had begged her for, but she always turned down every offer because of me. It makes my chest hurt in a way I don’t have language for.

“She looks happy,” Dave says carefully, like he’s testing the words.

I look up slowly. “Don’t.”

He lifts his hands. “I’m just saying, the narrative’s shifting. You need to decide how you want to be seen in this.”

“There is no narrative to decide on. I’m still married,” I snapped.

Dave hesitates. That’s new.

“For now,” he says.

I throw the bottle across the room. It shatters against the wall, glass skittering across the carpet.

“For now?” I roar. “She’s my wife.”

Dave doesn’t argue. He just exhales and checks his phone.