“We’re excited to have you,” I say, heat rising in me. I just referred to Patty and me aswe.
“Have you heard from Pat? He should be along any minute.”
“Not yet,” Sean says. “But he’s probably helping someone connect a cable or double-checking that everything has been set up safely.”
“That sounds like him,” I say with a smile. I look at Danny. “You’ve raised an incredible son.”
“Two,” Sean says.
“Eh. I have no way of verifying that,” I tease. “Let me go find Patty.”
On my way out of the green room, I spot the young record exec in the hallway, Greer, the one who told me I’m not good enough on my own, the one who told me I need Connor Nash.
She’s talking on the phone, but she spots me and waves me over.
I pretend I don’t understand what she’s getting at and instead wave back.
What would the label think if they knew I’ve already made my choice about Connor?
I’m not going to kiss him on stage. I’m not going to give them what they want. I can’t kiss a man when I’m in love with someone else.
But what if that costs me my career?
You can have it all, but not all at once.
Watch me.
I pass Greer without another glance and hunt for Patty.
I go down one corridor and then another, my slippered feet landing softly on the polished floor. I’m on my way back to the stage when I pass a row of dressing rooms.
Soft voices carry from the one closest to me—Connor’s.
I stop and get closer, almost pressing my ear to the frosted glass.
The murmur of voices grows just loud enough to hear.
I look around the hallway, and because I’m a crafty woman, I sink to the floor so my ear is close enough to the gap at the bottom of the door.
And I listen.
I hear every word.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
PATTY
“Wow, Patty. I almost didn’t recognize you,” Nash says, folding his arms—a mirror of my pose. I examine Nash like he is me—his naturally light hair, though he used to dye the tips black, all part of his need for contrast. When he went solo, he let his carefully curated persona become something a little more fleshed out.Nathaniel Connor LeDucbecameNashbecameConnor Nash.
I’m thrust back into countless memories I’ve fought for years to block out. He was always good at this: mimicking me, making me feel small, making me feel useless without him. When I dared to suggest that I wanted more—that I could be a star in my own right—he was so sweetly condescending, offering a mocking reassurance that made me question myself before I even had the chance to dream.
I still remember the way he grabbed my shoulders—so much skinnier back then—and said, “Patty, be serious. Yeah, you’re anexcellent musician, but you don’t have what it takes to command a stage.”
After years of him making me second-guess every song I wrote, every note I played, I couldn’t help but believe him. Even after I’d play something for someone else and they’d gush about it, it was always Nash’s opinion that mattered most.
From the first day of freshman year, when we got put in a dorm together, even knowing that he was there because his daddy donated a wing, while I earned my way through grit, talent, and dedication—I couldn’t shake the idea that he was my superior.
He was so wealthy and confident, with a voice as clear as a bell. I was poor, uncultured, and awkward, with a warm, gravelly tone like my mom’s. Gravel and molasses—rich and textured in a way that stays with you. Up until the first time Nash commented on it, I’d always liked my voice.
