But I hear nothing.
And that silence feels too much like confirmation.
My ears start ringing, a high, piercing sound that feels like a needle through my head. Betrayal rocks me—a punch to the gut that makes me feel like I’m gonna be sick. I’m unmoored. A kite whose string has been cut. But instead of floating away, I crash—hard and broken.
That album is precious to me. Those songs mean so much more than money. They’re a piece of me, a testament to finally opening my heart and trusting someone. I let Patty in, and now he’s offering up our songs to Nash for what? More money?
I stand up—unwilling, no, unable—to listen for another moment. I run into my dressing room and throw myself onto the couch, pressing my hands over my face, squeezing my jaw, my temples, the pressure points in my hands, anything to stop this pain.
But my sorrow is deeper than a well and wider than the Grand Canyon. Yet I can’t cry. I’m too shocked to cry. Too confused, too. I try to piece together their conversation, but none of it makes sense. It’s like trying to complete a puzzle without ever having seen the picture. I can’t even find the edge pieces—I can’t tell the sky from the water.
What happened?
Howdid it happen?
How did Patty and I go from having a plan to him betraying me so swiftly?
I’m such an idiot. I had one overarching rule for this tour—no distractions. And yet, what did I do? I found the biggest, grumpiest distraction of all, and I made him my person. My solace. My home.
What was it the exec said the other night?
“I thought you came from the industry? Do you really not know how this works?”
She was right. I’m not smart enough for this industry. Just because I’ve managed to create a tour environment free of the vices that trapped my dad doesn’t mean I actually know how to navigate this world. I know how to write songs. I know how to play them.
But this?
This is a different battlefield, and I don’t have the armor for it.
“I have songs. Songs you want.”
That’s what he said. But is there a chance he meant something else? Does he have more songs he’s been keeping back from me? But if they’re songs Connor wants, what else could Patty be talking about besides the ones we just sent to the label—the ones they want for Nash?
Maybe there are other songs. Songs he was keeping from me because he always meant them for Nash.
That’s possible, right?
Not likely.
But possible.
I put my head down on the cold leather. Cold. I feel so cold. My skin prickles with chills, like my blood has been replaced with ice. But I don’t have the strength to even grab a cardigan or a blanket.
How did my parents ever manage to trust each other?
How did my sister learn to trust her husband?
How have my friends opened their hearts so completely, especially when there were so many bumps in their roads?
The answer doesn’t come to me. I can’t ask them. Not when I have to go to sound check in a few minutes. Not when I need to focus on giving the best performance of my life so my label gives me another contract.
Maybe I should kiss Nash?—
Never.
The cry isn’t from my head but my heart. My heart that beats for Patty.
For the way he takes care of me, whether it's tea or slippers or carrying me to bed at night.
