Page 58

Bought the lies that I was sold

Like a good girl.

Wow, this is good stuff. I’m tempted to keep reading, but it feels too intrusive. Dishonorable. Just because someone left this journal lying around doesn’t mean I should keep reading words like this without their permission.

But the stuff I’ve seen so far is really good. Too good to be hidden away in this journal. It’s inspiring and I’m desperate for inspiration. I run my thumb over the bottom corner of the pages.

Just another peek.

I’m really starting to hate that devil’s voice in the back of my head.

Reluctantly, I set the open book down on the table and the pages automatically flip to a more creased section in the middle of the journal where the spine has been cracked. I don’t mean to look, but the fact that this page has different handwriting in thick black ink catches my eye. Everything else about this journal is neat and organized, whereas this page is full of chaos. Unable to help myself, I lean in and my heart stops.

There it is, written in a hasty, thick black Sharpie scrawl.

Ka$h Murray

And then realization hits me like a ton of bricks. This isn’t just some journal. This is Paisley’s lyric book.

December 10

My leg bounces as I wait for Paisley in the recording studio. I was really hoping to get this over and done with last night, but she ended up working late and wasn’t able to meet up with me like we’d planned.

Now I’ve had all night to work myself up into a good lather. Even though I didn’t intentionally do anything wrong (it’s not like I stole the journal or kept reading it after I realized what it was), it still feels like I trespassed on Paisley’s personal space. If she’d wanted to share it with me, she would have. And she didn’t.

Even worse is that things have been going so well with us. We’re writing music. Spending time together. I’m falling for her, hard.

I roll a pick back and forth over my knuckles, looking for an outlet for some of this pent-up worry. There’s a good chance this will open up old wounds and change everything between us.

I have that same feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach as I did when I was younger, that time I accidentally broke my mom’s stained glass butterfly. She was working late and I sat next to those tiny glass shards for hours, knowing I had to own up to it but hating every minute that passed until I could. Paisley’s journal sits closed on the table in front of me, and I’m about to make another uncomfortable confession that I know will hurt someone I care about.

I could slip her journal back where I found it. Cover it in blank pages and pretend it never happened. Paisley would never know.

But I’d know.

The door to the studio bursts open and Paisley breezes in at nine a.m., punctual as always.

“Good morning,” she says, setting her guitar case on the floor by the door. She wipes her boots on the entry mat as she pulls off fuzzy red mittens. “Sorry about last night. Everything gets so chaotic around here in the run-up to Christmas and…” She shoves the mittens into her coat pockets and pauses to study me. “Is everything okay?”

I take a deep breath and walk over to her. My heart is racing. I want to wrap my arms around her. I want to kiss her. I want to take the easy way out.

“I found your lyric book,” I say, tilting my head toward the table where her notebook is sitting in plain sight.

Paisley sucks in a sharp breath. She glances at the notebook and then back at me. “Oo-kay,” she says slowly, her forehead creasing as if she’s preparing herself for bad news.

“It was under some papers on the desk.” My voice is raspy and I force down a swallow.

“I was wondering where I left it.”

A weighted silence settles into the space between us. I know I have to keep going.

“I didn’t realize it was yours at first. There was no name inside the cover. As soon as I saw the page with my autograph on it…” The more I talk, the more the words seem to get stuck on my tongue. “I stopped.”

Paisley clenches her jaw. “How much did you read?” She looks up at me with a dull, wary look in her eyes.

“Not much,” I rush to assure her. “A few sentences here and there.”

Her fingers play with a gold-and-green beaded bracelet on her wrist. She must have a whole drawer full of them, seeing as how she always seems to be wearing a different bracelet every day. “Thank you for telling me.” Her words slice into me like paper cuts. Her tone is cool and impersonal, like she’s talking to someone she doesn’t know. Already, there’s distance building between us.