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“What happened?”

“We were leaving a club at two in the morning when she asked what I was afraid of. I’d been drinking. I was tired. Stupid combination.”

My fingers press once against my sternum before I force my hand flat against the mattress.

“I told her something I’d never said aloud. Not to the label. Not in an interview. Not even to the boys.”

The words scrape on the way out, even now.

“I said I was afraid I wasn’t as good as everyone thought. That I stand beside better musicians every night, collect most of the attention, and one day the world will realize it backed the wrong guy.”

The dark is very dark.

“Eight months later, it appeared in a profile. A source close to Fox claims the singer privately doubts his own talent.”

I let out a humorless laugh.

“There was only one possible source. I understood the lesson that morning, and apparently, I’m still fucking learning it.”

“Oh, Cal.”

“I’m not telling you because I need sympathy.”

I turn my head toward her bed. I can only make out her faint shape beneath the comforter.

“I’m telling you because you keep trying to get through, and I don’t want you thinking the door is closed just to you.”

She goes quiet. Long enough for regret to start crawling over my skin.

“That’s really fucked up, Cal.”

A laugh slips out of me. “Thank you for the professional assessment.”

“I’m serious.” There’s an edge to her voice now. “You told her the one thing you were most afraid of, and she handed it to the press. And you were friends?” She exhales sharply. “God, what a—what a bitch. And I’m a feminist, so I don’t use that word lightly.”

I laugh. “Thanks, Bea.”

“No, I mean it. Your brain basically learned that letting someone in gets you hurt. Of course, you put the walls back up.”

“Very clinical, Doc.”

“Obviously.” Her voice softens. “And for what it’s worth, I think you were wrong.”

“About telling you this?”

“About being the guy who gets all the credit while better musicians stand behind him.”

My body goes still.

“You don’t make eighty thousand people feel something by accident, Cal. People don’t memorize every word you’ve written just because you happen to have a nice face.”

“The face helps.”

“Obviously.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “But it isn’t why they listen.”

My throat feels tighter than it should.

“I know telling me this was a big deal,” she continues. “So…thank you.”