Page 47 of A Song for You

We were everything and yet nothing at all.

Sophie jumps up and pulls me into her arms. “What? Why?”

I hug her close, happy to have someone to fall apart against. “I’m a James, and he’s a Hanson. In the end, it was just too much to move past.”

She pulls back, keeping hold of my upper arms. “But he’s your brother’s friend.”

“It’s not the same as dating. I think we both know this could be the real deal. Why start something if it can go nowhere?”

I understand Jay’s reasoning. I’ve distanced myself from my father’s name, but I’ll always be his daughter.

“That’s ridiculous. Why can’t Jameses and Hansons be together? This isn’t Romeo and Juliet.”

With an eye roll, I huff a sardonic laugh. “Our companies are direct competitors. And our fathers hate each other. I thought that since Carter and Jay were friends, they’d moved past that, but I’ve never really kept up with the family business or any of that drama. But Jay works with his father. He’ll take over their company. I get why he’s more invested in this feud than I am. And as much as I want to see where things go with him, I refuse to beg for any man’s attention.”

Sophie purses her lips and watches me for another minute, and then she smiles. “Good. We’ll go for drinks after work, and then you’ll sleep over.”

For a moment, I consider declining, yearning for another night in Jay’s bed. Just one more night of wallowing. But instead, I straighten and force a smile. “Sounds good. Thanks.”

“Now,” Sophie says, holding up a red cashmere scarf and a green one, “tell me: which do you like better?”

I grab at them in excitement. “Oh, is this for the Christmas list?”

Sophie hums as she settles back in her seat.

“God, you are so lucky to be working on this. When I was in high school I would stalk this list every year! Are you loving testing all the products at home?”

Sophie shrugs. “Some of them.”

Narrowing my eyes, I study her. She’s acting strange. “What do you mean some of them?”

“I can’t use a lot of this stuff, Cat,” she says evenly, but she can’t hide the undercurrent of hurt in her tone.

“What?” I ask, confused. “What else is on the list?”

Sophie points to her desk.

Shuffling closer, I peek at the printout full of items and the handful of samples scattered beside it. Makeup, fasting drinks, miracle teas, jewelry, belts, hair products—you name it, and the list has it. Or, as Sophie so aptly pointed out without actually using the words, you name it, and the magazine has it for white women. Skinny white women.

“What do you use for your hair?”

Sophie turns to me, a hand on one hip and her expression nonplussed. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” I ask, my forehead creasing.

“Think you can change things. We work at a fashion magazine, Cat. Not the Washington Post.”

I huff out an annoyed laugh. “Just answer the damn question.”

Sophie lists exactly what she uses, from shampoo to styling.

“And how long did it take you to find those products?”

She huffs. “I don’t know. Are you writing a dissertation on this or what?”

I shrug. “Never mind. I’m not even working on this. It was just a thought.”

Sophie softens. “Okay. Tell me what you’re thinking.”