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That’s how I find myself standing on the curb outside the Knoxville airport, waiting on an Uber. My pink luggage sits at my feet. I’m in the sweatsuit he bought me in Maine. These days, I throw it in the wash at night and wear it again the next day.

Speaking of him, he hasn’t called. After Jenna gave me a call and invited me to the studio, I sent him a text to thank him, and he sent one back that only said:

Thank me later.

Since then, he hasn’t reached out. I wonder whether he’s busy or holding back. Is he judging me for going ahead with trying to seriously pursue music after everything he told me? After what he saw Coen go through? I wonder whether he thinks I’m foolish, childish. Or is he pulling away because he doesn’t want anyone to know what happened between us now that I’m stepping into his world?

Either way, I don’t like it.

The Uber takes me much further out of town than I expected. Pretty soon, we’re cruising through rolling hills, horse, and cattle farms. Autumn hasn’t progressed as far as it has back home, and the trees are a bright orange-red as far as the eye can see. I follow the dark fenceline along the side of the road until we come over a hill, and right away, I know it’s the studio without having to read the sign over the entrance.

The house sits at the end of a short drive, and beyond it is a lake nestled in the hills. Everything is misty and wonderfully autumnal. It feels safe.

The driver pulls up to the front porch, and I hesitate. This is the first stop on a road I’ve wanted to walk on for a long time.

Deep down, I can’t shake the feeling of wanting Jamie here.

The front door opens and a petite woman with a blunt bob, dressed in a smart sweater, a plaid skirt, and Oxfords, appears. I don’t know why, but I was expecting someone older from how confident her voice is, but Jenna is hardly over thirty-five.

“Hey, darling,” she calls, lifting a hand.

“Hi,” I say shyly, tugging my suitcase from the trunk and pulling the handle up. “It’s so good to meet you in person.”

“Of course,” she says, opening the heavy wooden door. “Come on in. It’s chilly out this morning. I just made some tea. Or we can have coffee, if you prefer.”

“I’ll take tea,” I say.

We step into the hall. It’s a beautiful Victorian-style farmhouse, redone in dark, shiny wood. Everything smells like vanilla and earthy, like a masculine candle. My eyes adjust to the dim light as we trek down the hall to the kitchen. Another woman sits at the table in a neat pantsuit, her silver hair tied at her nape. She gives off a kind aura, though much more corporate than Jenna.

“Rita, this is Serena,” Jenna says, gesturing. “And Serena, this is Rita, the senior agent at MET.”

I lean in, shaking her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

She looks me up and down, eyes narrowing. There’s a moment where I wonder if she’s disappointed by what she sees. Then she gives a sharp nod.

“You do have some star quality about you, don’t you?” she says in a crisp, no-nonsense voice.

“I hope so,” I say. “I mean, yes, that’s the goal.”

She laughs. “Are you alright with staying here for a few days? We have the upstairs renovated into rooms for clients when they work at the studio. I’d love for you to meet a couple producers, show us what you’re working on, hear you play. Then we’ll all go from there.”

“Sounds good,” I say. “And thank you.”

Jenna winks at me, hands behind her back. “Let’s go get you settled.”

Rita’s already sweeping from the room, heels clicking loudly. I follow Jenna through the kitchen to the staircase. She clip-clops up in her Oxfords. Her energy reminds me of a hummingbird, bright, all over the place, pleasant. We enter a long hallway, in the same dark wood as downstairs.

“You have a concerned friend,” she says, glancing back with a smile.

“Huh?”

“Jamie called me, you know.”

“He said he did the day you emailed.”

“Oh, he called yesterday,” she says brightly, coming to a halt outside a door to the back left. “He wanted to know if we’d met yet.”

My heart flip-flops. A little hopeful flame ignites.