She flourished her fingers by her face. “When I sing, it comes true.”
“Except you sing about the past.”
“Not my next album.”
“No more heartbreak?”
“I wish,” she said quietly. “It won’t be manufactured, that’s for sure.” She slapped her hands on her thighs. “My new manager, Shanita, seems cool. She’s so reassuring about the album and supportive, like of course I’m going to drop an excellent work of art. I didn’t realize how insidious Lucy was about chipping away at my self-esteem. Shanita has taken the reins and is working with my promotion team. The first concert date has been set.”
Dismay dulled the numbing of the bourbon. “That’s great.”
If she noticed the woodenness in my tone, she ignored it. “I told her I wanted all-female opening acts. I want to be the stepping-stone for them that I didn’t have because I didn’t play the game, or I didn’t look how they wanted, or I didn’t act seductively enough.”
“You don’t have to act.”
“You’re biased.” She took a drink from my bourbon. Her delicate throat worked over the fluid as she swallowed.
I curled my fingers behind her neck and stroked a thumb over her windpipe. “You seduced me by just being you.”
She brushed the backs of her fingers over my brow. “It was that tortured look of yours that got to me. So stereotypical of me.”
I released her to take another drink. “I was tortured.”
“Looking back, I can see how selfish I was. You didn’t talk about your mom and I let you just not discuss your feelings. It was all about me.”
The liquor burned into my stomach lining, and my water glass was empty. “I wanted it to be all about you.”
“Maybe that’s why we didn’t make it.” Her eyes flared. “I mean— I don’t blame you?—”
“It’s okay.” I grabbed her hands. “We were young. Eighteen-year-olds who didn’t know what life was throwing at us.”
“You turned nineteen right after I left.”
“Yeah.” The shittiest birthday of my life. “You were my everything, June. But if the focus hadn’t been on you, I think it would’ve been the same eventually anyway. My path went one way; yours went the other.”
She took another sip from my glass. “Do you think they’ll ever converge again?”
“I don’t know.”
“What if we make sure?”
I’d rather talk about my mom than listen to June give up on her dream. “You’re going on that tour.”
“I am.” She lacked the conviction I wanted to hear.
“You’re going to enjoy it.”
“I’m going to enjoy being on stage,” she clarified.
I spread my hands on her thighs. I couldn’t have her second-guessing anything. “June. You’re going to rock that tour?—”
“I playcountrymusic.”
“I’ve heard people argue that you’re not real country.”
Her mouth dropped open and she gasped. Loudly. “Rhys Conner Kinkade, you take that back.”
“I’m just saying what I’ve heard.” I was goading her, and I would savor the passion that was about to come.
