Page 63

It’s better than pining away like I did last year.

God, I can’t do that again.

For the rest of the day, I work so hard that Coen asks me if I’m alright several times. I nod, wiping the dust and bits of straw from my sweaty face. He can tell I’m not in the mood to talk, but it’s pretty obvious what’s going on. I’m sure they’ll have a serious conversation alone tonight about it.

I’m fine. Really, I am.

That night, after dinner is over, I go and sink down on the porch with my guitar. It’s not lost on me that this is where I sat the night I decided to go see Mom. And run away from Jamie.

How’d that work out?

The little voice in my head has been pretty mean lately. I squash it back and focus on the brilliant orange-and-pink sky.

I swallow, past the prickly lump in my throat. My fingers run idly over the strings. I think about what Jamie said about putting some music out there and seeing how people respond. It’s a terrifying, vulnerable thought. But it’s also the only way forward if I really want to pursue music. My fingers speed up, plucking the same three chords.

I want to go after it.

It’s all I’ve ever had. Even now, all torn up inside, I’m holding my guitar.

I wait until there’s no more light to see by, then I go inside.

It’s going to be a long summer.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

JAMIE

I’m on a music video shoot for one of my clients. We’re at the edge of the woods in upstate New York, not so far from where she stays with her mom. I wonder whether she’s still there, or if she went home.

It’s raining, a light mist. The woods, usually lush and green in this part of the state, are a dull orange-brown. Crew members move around me, streaks in the corners of my vision. Rain gathers on the shoulders of my windbreaker and streams down to my boots. This part of the video is sad. And wet. So it’s the perfect weather for it.

I blink, running a hand over my face. My feet are starting to go numb.

“Cut,” the director calls.

Everyone relaxes and starts talking. A pair of actors walk past me and smile, like they want to start a conversation. I dip my head, giving them a thin-lipped smile that clearly sends the message I’m not in the mood to converse.

“Jamie.”

I turn, and it’s my client, a country-folk artist who goes by Lenny. If I’m being honest, he’s one of my least favorite clients on a personal level, but he makes a lot of money and knows a lot of people who benefit me. Unfortunately, that’s just the way things go sometimes. He’s a blunt, lanky man, with high expectations that I always manage to meet, but am still exhausted from. Today, he’s in a brown suit, his long hair tied back at the nape of his neck. Light rain sits unabsorbed on his wool jacket.

“Hey,” I say, shaking his hand.

“Didn’t think you’d turn up,” he says. “I was calling you the other week.”

Normally, I’d apologize. I’d offer to make up for missing his calls in some other way. Today, I stare at him and think about being in my bed with Serena, how the world was so much better for those few nights that my phone was off.

“I was busy,” I say finally.

He snorts. “I didn’t think you got busy enough to turn your phone off.”

“I did this time.”

He plants his feet apart, swaying from side to side. “You caught up in some new shit?”

“Nah, personal.”

He doesn’t move. This is what I hate about this motherfucker. If he feels he’s owed all my attention, he demands an explanation as if I’m on the clock and wasting time he’s paid for. Anger flares in my chest. Usually I’m good at handling this, but right now, my temper is short. And I’m wet and chilly.