“Fine. Have it your way,” he says. His eyes glisten with tears. His hand clenches around my doorknob, frustration rolling off him in waves. “Goodbye, Sasha.”
I breathe into the phone, unable to speak yet. The sound of Kai’s footsteps gets farther and farther away until I can’t hear them anymore.
“Hey, girlie! What’s up?” Marissa’s tone shifts when I don’t answer. “Talk to me. What’s up?”
“I want to end the contract.”
CHAPTER 17
I spend the next couple of weeks holed up in the studio and rehearsing for the Grammys, tuning out the world. It fits the narrative Marissa and my PR team have shaped: that I havedisappearedto process my breakup.
Not even two days after I told her that I wanted to end the contract, there were already five hashtags with our names trending, multiple outlets describing how we’ve called it quits, and that it’s amicable, so please respect our privacy.
The devil works fast, but Marissa works faster.
Everyone wants to know how I’m doing, what I’m feeling, and me being off the radar is supposed to build anticipation for the Grammys. My lead single is now a heartbreak song I’ll be debuting there.
“Do they end up together?” Shirley asks. They munch on an Oreo, leaning against the cluttered studio table. “I don’t mind spoilers. Just tell me.”
“Nobody knows yet! The show’s still ongoing. But I have a feeling they’re going to have a tragic ending.” I slide my chair over to the computer to show them the fictional storyour new song is inspired by. I feel relieved that I told them. That I don’t have to pretend around them.
“No!” They groan and bury their face in their arms, careful not to disturb the massive mixing table. “Wait, I need to watch this show immediately.”
Their phone buzzes, distracting them for a moment.
I stiffen on instinct, thinking back to when Asher called me out of the blue. I wonder how he’s doing. How Kai’s doing. Asher’s tried texting me, but Kai has gone full MIA, like he did two years ago. I can’t blame him, though. I haven’t texted him, either.
“Sorry, do you mind if I take this?” Shirley asks. “We’re trying to buy a house.”
We.I didn’t know Shirley was in a relationship.
I nod, giving them a thumbs-up.
I mean, it makes sense. Shirley is the coolest person ever. Yet it’s strange, to feel like you know a person, their soul, while simultaneously not knowing the little details about their life. I know Shirley likes to grow their own plants but has a thing against getting people flowers as a gift. When I got nominated for the Grammys, instead of a bouquet, they sent me an aloe vera plant.
My eyes flick to the miniature Eiffel Tower next to the computer. It’s their lucky charm—they got it in Paris when they were a student, and a few months later one of their songs went viral. Their favorite tattoo is the one on their back, the one that shows the Avengers each holding a Pokémon.
But they never mentioned they had a partner, so I never asked.
I seriously need to get better at small talk.
“Okay, ask Margot what she wants to do about it, but I like it. I’m in a session, but I’ll call you later? Okay, love you. See you at home.” Their voice colors with affection. I guess Margot is their real estate agent, and whoever they’re talking to is their partner. After the call ends, Shirley tosses their phone on the couch and rubs their temples with a sigh. “Buying a house is such a headache.”
I knead their shoulders with my fingers, undoing the knots there. “Does this help?”
“Hm. A little.” They relax against the chair before pulling up a picture of a home in Pasadena. “What do you think? It needs work, but my partners and I loved it the moment we set foot in it.”
Partners?My heart skips a tiny beat. Maybe it was a slip of the tongue.
Shirley swivels their chair to face me. “But anyway, are you excited for the Grammys?”
I will the expression on my face to resemble a smile. “Something like it.”
My new single is an intimate ballad, so it’ll just be me and my piano onstage. No dancers, no chorus to back me up. Everyone will be watching my every move. Or, well, Sassy’s.
“Are you sure? Because that sounds like a bunch of BS,” Shirley says. They raise an eyebrow. “Little S, we’ve spent the past few weeks in this studio together, and we’ve written like what, half a song? Normally I have a sample from you in my inbox every other week. I can tell your mind is somewhere else.”
I flinch, caught off guard. They’re right. I’m creatively dry—I just didn’t think it was that obvious. Some people use sadness to fuel their creativity. I rely on happiness, but even when I write from sadness, there’s a threshold for how much it can inspire me. A little is an outlet, too much cripples my creativity.
