Page 482 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

the tracking room,

the strangers on the couch,

Callista—

snaps back into his body and claps Ace’s hand. “Yo. What’s up, man.” Then to me, “Why do I feel like I’m the only idiot in this room who don’t know what’s happenin’?”

I pull Andrew off to the side,

a cold sweat climbing out of my palms.

I stand there, eyes jumping around the studio, scrubbing my hands down my denim thighs.

Andrew’s looking right at me, waiting,

and I’ve never felt this sick in a studio.

He’s never seen the skeleton of my songwriting soul before, never seen me naked, peeled raw as I hand over the bones of my music.

“I had Callista’s live session booked for today.” I lift my chin around the hungry, waiting room. “They’re gonna hear the song I’ve been working on. And if Callista likes it…”

My eyes find his again.

“I’ll have to hand it over.”

God, I fucking hate this part.

“This might be the last time I sing it as mine.” I lift my shoulder. “Before it becomes hers.”

Andrew’s face goes strikingly still, eyes wrecking-ball gentle and holding mine, already willing to kill for a song he’s never heard—protect it, guard it with his life, like shielding a candle’s flame in the middle of a hurricane.

At our sides,

his fingers graze my knuckles.

“You sure you’re ready?”

Fuck no. “Yeah.” I nod.

“Better to rip the Band-Aid off, right?”

He side-eyes the team on the couch.

“Aight, so… this song handoff, what’s my role in this? Say she wants it, you want me to stand back? Just let her take it? Or you want me steppin’ in? ‘Cause I can be an asshole if you need an asshole,” he says out of the corner of his mouth. I laugh, pressing my hand to my forehead. “I mean there’s always the third option,” he continues, glancing over his shoulder. “Go full psycho-ex, do some harrassin’, win it back after it moves on…”

“I like psycho.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Thought you would.”

Ace claps his hands from across the room. “Aye—y’all done? ‘Cause I got beats to mix and a whole ass career to maintain.”

Andrew stands taller, whispering, “Mr. Grammy Awards said ‘whole ass career’ like he ain’t eatin’ a Lunchable at his mixing board in pajamas at two in the afternoon.”

From behind the glass, Elliot, our sound tech, gives a thumbs-up. “Piano’s hot.”

I roll a chair over to the mixing board.

“Sit, stand, your call,” I tell him,