Page 28

“Um…” he says. “Barry tells me you’re making a real name for yourself?”

That’s not exactly how I’d put it, but people have said a lot worse over the past few months. “Anything else?” I ask.

“Should there be?” The blank look on his face seems real enough.

It’s crystal clear to me in this moment that Kash Murray has absolutely no idea we’ve previously met.

“I guess not.”

“Look, I don’t want to disappoint you,” he says, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “But I just wanted to let you know that I don’t really need your help. I know Barry wants us to work together, but I can do this on my own.”

“Oh,” I say, taking a moment to process. “Okay. Fine by me.”

And I should be relieved about it, right? Not only am I so inconsequential to him that he doesn’t remember interacting with me backstage, but he doesn’t even remember the way his band made fun of me on social media. Moreover, this is the guy who showed up late, ordered room service, barely thanked me for bringing him dinner anyway, and then stood me up at the studio. Not having to work with him on his demo is a gift.

“I guess I’ll see you around,” he says.

“I sure hope not,” I mutter under my breath.

“Oh,” he replies, sounding surprised that I’m not dying to spend time with the likes of him. Sounding a lot like someone who thinks the sun comes up just to hear him crow.

I breathe a sigh of relief when the gift shop door closes behind him.

I’ve spent so much time letting the memory of our last interaction live rent free in my head, and he hasn’t even thought about me once. And yet I remember it like it was yesterday. How he laughed at his bandmates’ jokes about my name and the fact they thought I was a groupie. How he lifted his chin when he strode toward me, tilting his cowboy hat to reveal his warm brown eyes. The way our gazes locked and the air seemed to absorb all the sounds around us. How he winked as he handed my lyric book back.

It’s stupid to be upset that he doesn’t remember me now. Completely bonkers. That night was the absolute worst night of my life. I wish no one could remember any of it.

And even more, why would I ever want to be memorable to someone like Kash Murray?

Track 10

I Don’t Know How I’ll Make It on My Own

Kash

November 4

I’ve been in the studio for a few hours, and I have nothing to show for it.

A song? Nope.

A melody even? Nope.

Not even a string of words that could be considered the start of some lyrics.

I’ve got zip. Zilch. Nothing.

I glance out the window. The midmorning sunlight filters down through the maple trees. Some of the leaves have started to fall, but a lot of the maples still have some foliage left. The fire-engine red and vibrant orange leaves sparkle in the breeze.

Something’s got to change, because I’m never going to make any progress if I keep spinning my wheels. A change of scenery, maybe.

I grab my guitar, shove it back into its case, and head outdoors to look for some inspiration. When I get to the reindeer barn, Paisley’s not there. Not that I’m looking for her. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Passing by the small gray shed, I head in the direction of the Christmas tree lot. Maybe being surrounded by orderly rows of fir trees will help me organize my thoughts. As I slip between two giant cone-shaped trees, I hear the soft sounds of someone humming punctuated by the sharp snipping sound of a pair of shears. I peer around the trees and spot a bright orange jacket a little farther down the row. When the person moves into view, I realize it’s Paisley.

She’s wearing large, old-school headphones and bobbing her head to a tune only she can hear as she shapes the tree. I should continue on my way…The last thing I need is a distraction, no matter how cute (and confusing) it might be, but then she starts to sing.

I’m transfixed.