Including Patty.
“What would you like to talk about?” I ask innocently.
She adjusts her cat-eye glasses. “Sweetie, you’re too smart not to understand what’s going on here.”
“Which is …?”
“You need Connor. People liked the mystery of you when you were simply a question mark to them. Then, they liked the idea of you when you were a legacy.
“But now that the novelty of both of these has worn off …” Greer tsks. “Well, you’ve read what the critics are saying. You’ve seen the TikToks.”
My heart gets lodged somewhere in my windpipe.
“I haven’t,” I lie, insecurity bubbling in my throat like heartburn. “What do they say?”
She rubs my forearm, like she’s trying to put balm on a burn, even as she holds me over the fire.
“They feel like you pulled a bait and switch. When you were anonymous, they had all this hope for who you might be—all these expectations. And now? You’re just the daughter of a famous woman. You need to do something interesting, and if that doesn’t involve Connor, you’re going to need another hook. And fast.”
I swallow hard.
Another hook.
And fast.
“I don’t understand,” I admit, proud of myself that my lip isn’t quivering. “I’m doing well. I’ve sold out every show, and I’m only getting more buzz.”
“But that’s from the girlies on the street. The people who make decisions, well, we need more.”
“More?”
“What you’re giving us isn’t cutting it.” She pats my arm. “We need more.”
“What about the album I just sent you guys? Those songs are probably the best I’ve ever written?—”
“They were! They were excellent,” she says. “But they’re so bluesy and rich—we’re not sure they match the sound we want from you. Or your audience’s expectations, frankly.”
“Their expectations?” I ask, as if I’m not already defeated enough. “I have almost ten years worth of songs that are pop, indie, folk, country, outlaw country. Haven’t I shown my audience that they can expect more than one thing from me?”
“That’s what you showed thembefore. But if you lean into what you are now, you’ll have a better foothold in the industry.”
The effort not to cry, the effort to pretend my eyes aren’t stinging and my head isn’t pounding is overwhelming. I’m already cold enough that I want to shiver, but the added emotion makes it almost uncontrollable. A shudder runs through me.
“So, you guys don’t want them?—”
“For you.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Patty shift. His arms are already folded, but his chest swells as he breathes deeply. Almost like he’s panting.
“What does that mean?” I ask, standing as tall as I can, wishing it would give me the same kind of confidence it always gave me in law school—and then in court.
But right now? I feel like a little girl playing dress-up in her momma’s heels.
“We want them. We love them! We just think they’re a better fit for Connor Nash. And we’ll give you a generous royalty split.”
Her words stop me cold.
“What?”
