I say this too loud.
All around the rustic, dusty rose and antique gold green room, people are staring at me.
I force a smile and wave, mentally pleading with them to stop looking, stop listening.
“These songs are mine. Mine and my co-writer’s. I don’t understand.”
Her eyes seem to grow teeth.
“I thought you came from the industry? Do you really not know how this works?” She leans in slightly. “You’re a big star, but Connor is astronomically big. If you write an album and sell it to him, you get paid. If one of our in-house writers—someone technically worth less than you—writes songs the label likes, and you release them? You get paid. No matter how it happens,everything makes you money.”
How can she spin this likeI’mthe fool for wanting my own songs? “You want to use a songwriter for me?I’ma songwriter.”
She gives me a patronizing smile. “Of courseyou are! You and a thousand others. But this way, your next album stays on schedule, and you profit from the songs you already wrote. It’s a win-win.”
I’m such an idiot. Connor doesn’t need to fight for space in the industry. He walks in, and the room reshapes around him. Me? I have to beg just to keep what's mine.
How do I keep convincing myself that I understand this world? That I was prepared for it because of what my parents went through?
I can’t even negotiate to perform my own songs.
But at the same time, I can’t imagine someone else singing them.
Writing with Patty wasn’t some business transaction. It was an act of love, an expression of total trust.
I glance over at him, trying to make it look like I’m just thinking, evaluating her words.
When I take in his face, it’s completely unreadable.
“My songs aren’t for sale,” I say, in as strong a voice as I can.
She scoffs, a sound of pure annoyance.
“Everyone said you were smart. And you’re turning down Connor Nash.”
She laughs and walks away.
And I’m left standing there.
Maybe Greer is right. Maybe I’m just someone people were curious about for a moment—until they realized there was nothing special underneath.
Maybe I’m every bit the naive, starry-eyed imposter she thinks I am.
The second I get on the bus that night, Patty kisses me goodnight. We don’t talk about what Greer said. I don’t know if either of us can. The way he holds me tells me he understands, though. He feels my pain.
And I love him for it.
As soon as I shower, I curl up in my bed, where I cry. I’m filled with a longing, a homesickness beyond anything I’ve ever felt. I want to call my mom, but I know she’s already asleep. And how can I tell her that after my best efforts, I’m still not good enough?
I’ve struggled and sacrificed and committed every spare moment to this dream, and it’s not enough.
Even my own songs are the wrong fit for me.
I can’t wake her up for that.
But I also can’t go on with this loneliness carving a hole in my chest.
Everyone I know is asleep. It’s three in the morning—only musicians and creatives are up …
