Page 481 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

Like he belongs on stage,

in a library,

and tangled in my bed sheets

all at the same time.

Under his open jacket, he’s wearing a henley, fitted black jeans, Nikes, and those black-rimmed glasses that make him obnoxiously hot. He thinks this is a quick five-minute pit stop on the way to see his moms.

He has no idea today’s the day I pitch the song live to Callista. And I had no idea how stupid I am for bringing him until now.

My brain really sat there and said,

yo—got a great fuckin’ idea:

write a song about

falling for Andrew Harding.

Bring Andrew Harding into the studio.

Then sing the Andrew Harding song

while Andrew Harding stands there

with his stupid pretty Andrew Harding face.

No reason to panic at all.

Just sit at the piano and ignore your heart hanging out of your chest like a drunk tit.

Everyone else is already here.

The A&R team is scattered across the leather couches.

Jenkins, Callista’s manager, is pacing one wall, phone glued to his ear.

Callista and Ace are at the mixing board—Ace sprawled back with his headphones hanging around his neck, king of every knob, god of every pulse, dressed for a nap.

The soundboard glows in front of him, a tiny neon metropolis under his fingertips.

I sneak up behind Ace and shake the back of his chair.

“Are you ready?” I say,

like a sports announcer.

On the other side of the glass is the tracking room, where a spotlight rains down on a piano waiting for me.

Ace rolls an inch closer to the board,

tosses a look over his shoulder,

sees Andrew with me.

“Brah,” Ace calls, hand up. “You again.”

Andrew—still looking at the booth,