“Confidence, not ego,” he corrects, still grinning. “There’s a difference. And I have complete faith in you, which you should too.”
The plane finally reaches the gate and everyone immediately stands up even though we’re clearly not going anywhere for another five minutes. Jack doesn’t move from his seat, so neither do I, and I’m grateful for the extra minute to just sit here and breathe.
“Ready?” Jack asks when people finally start moving down the aisle.
“As I’ll ever be,” I say, taking one more deep breath.
He grabs our bags from the overhead compartment with easy strength and we file down the aisle with everyone else, shuffling slowly toward the exit.
LAX is exactly how I remember it from childhood—massive, overwhelming, full of people who all seem to know exactly where they’re going. My parents were both born in Southern California, and we used to come down every couple of years to visit family. Dad’s aunt in Pasadena who had approximately ten cats and opinions about everything. My grandparents in Orange County whose entire extended family would somehow materialize for Sunday dinners that turned into hours of talking and laughing while I fell asleep on the couch.
But even back then, driving past all the billboards and seeing the Hollywood sign in the distance, I remember hoping somedayI’d come back here for music. To play at actual venues like the Troubadour or the Roxy, to meet with labels, to make something of the songs I was writing in my bedroom. It seemed impossible then, a fantasy that belonged to other people, not to a ten-year-old from Dark River who was still figuring out basic guitar chords.
And now I’m here. Because Tidal Records thinks I might be worth investing in.
We collect our bags from the carousel—mine is bright turquoise and impossible to miss, which was the entire point when I bought it—and head outside into the Southern California heat. It hits me immediately, that dry warmth that’s so different from Miami, so different from the damp Pacific Northwest air I’m used to.
The sky is this perfect cloudless blue that feels aggressively cheerful, like it’s personally invested in my success here. Palm trees everywhere, that hazy sunshine that makes everything look slightly filtered.
There’s a black SUV waiting with a driver holding a sign that says “Reyes,” which still feels completely surreal. Like I’m in a movie about someone else’s life.
“Ms. Reyes?” the driver confirms.
“That’s me,” I say, trying to sound like someone who has drivers waiting for them all the time and not like someone whose usual transportation involves a fifteen-year-old Honda Civic with a broken air conditioner.
He loads our bags and we’re on the freeway heading toward West Hollywood, and I’m watching the city slide past the windows like a highlight reel of everything that makes LA simultaneously fascinating and overwhelming.
Billboards advertising movies I haven’t seen, albums I haven’t heard. Endless lanes of traffic even though it’s earlyafternoon. Palm trees lining every street like they’re required by city ordinance.
“Oh, look that’s Pink’s,” I say, pointing at the iconic hot dog stand as we pass. “My aunt on my dad’s side refused to take us because she said it was ‘tourist trap nonsense,’ but I really wanted to go because I loved the name. So one time my mom snuck us there.”
“Rebels,” Jack says, grinning at me.
“Right? We felt so dangerous.” I laugh, remembering it. “Eating chili dogs in a parking lot like criminals. I think she hated them, but I loved it. I got chili all over my shirt and we had to stop at a gas station to clean me up before we went back. Pretty sure my aunt knew but never said anything.”
“Your family sounds fun,” he says.
“They’re chaotic. Maybe you’ll see them at Christmas.” The words are out before I fully process them, and then my brain catches up. Christmas. With my family. That’s months away and also a very couple-y thing to say and maybe too soon to be casually throwing out there like it’s a given.
But Jack just squeezes my hand. “I’d love that.”
He’s not freaked out. He’s not backpedaling or making a joke to deflect.
“Fair warning though,” I say, trying to sound normal and not like I’m already imagining him at my family’s table, “myabuelawill try to feed you until you can’t move.”
He laughs, and I love that sound. “Even better. I’m extremely motivated by food.”
We keep talking as the car weaves through traffic, and I can’t stop pointing at things out the window. The taco place my dad still talks about. The corner where we got hopelessly lost trying to find the beach. That weird statue I thought was haunted when I was seven.
Jack listens to all of it, grinning, asking questions, telling me about the time he got mobbed at an In-N-Out and had to be escorted out by security without even getting his burger. Somewhere between the stories and the familiar streets passing by, the knot in my chest loosens.
When we pull up to the hotel, the driver gets our bags and I take a deep breath. West Hollywood. I’m in West Hollywood for meetings with a record label. It’s a gorgeous boutique place called The Redbury that looks like someone with an unlimited budget and very strong opinions about design brought their Pinterest board to life.
It’s the kind of place where you instinctively lower your voice when you walk in because it feels too nice for normal conversation volume. Check-in is smooth because Tidal already handled everything. The front desk person is friendly in that way that makes you feel both welcome and acutely aware that you’re probably not their usual clientele.
Then we’re heading up to our room, and I’m trying not to visibly gawk at how nice everything is. The elevator has mirrors and mood lighting. The hallway has actual art on the walls, not just generic hotel prints.
Jack opens the door to our room and I stop in my tracks.
