He understood the exhaustion she felt fighting a reputation she didn’t ask for. It was inescapable, like swimming upstream with fifty-pound ankle weights.
“When Mom passed away, my father decided that I needed a more disciplined path. I just rebelled, with the sneaking out and the girls. After I dropped out of college, I spent the next few years whiskey-bent and hell-bound, floating between writing songs that went nowhere and too many bad choices along the way. Eventually, I felt so behind in life that I finally took my father’s help. He swears I’d be twice as successful by now had I listened sooner.”
Jamie spun his ring around his finger. “So, yeah…there’s a lot on the line for me too.”
Brinton took a deep breath, brushing her fingertips against his on the table and blanketing him in calmness.
“It must be a lot of pressure to live up to your father’s legacy. But why do you feel like you can’t say no to him? I’m sorry if that’s out of line, but I guess, this isyourlife. He doesn’t…own you, you know?”
Jamie sighed, then bowed his head.
“It’s a fair question. It’s sad to say, but before I met you, I couldn’t recognize it as him controlling me. Where I come from, fathers create this lore about their families, and then that lore becomes law. It’s about respecting them, and what they pass onto you. Loyalty…It’s ingrained in Southern culture.
“My father, and his father before him, and so on, set the tone,” Jamie continued. “Out of respect, or maybe humility, I listened. I’m sure that’s hard for you to understand, but it’s the truth. That’s why I’m so taken by what you’ve accomplished on your own. It’s a big deal to be where you are.”
“I’m checking a box.” She laughed bitterly. “My editor only hired me so that he and his bosses felt better about the bullshitLandmarkperpetuates daily. In a year, only one Black artist covered the print issue. The story was written by a white writer with the audacity to debate the merits of Blackface with me, so I’ll let you guess how that went. And I’m never surprised when, year after year, I’m the sole writer on-call during Juneteenth weekend. You know, in case some Black-ass news happens.”
Brinton blew out a breath. “But it’s a legacy publication anyone would kill to write for. I’m living The American Dream.”
“God, Brinton, that is awful—I am so sorry,” he said.
His heart splintered for her, and he was mortified spilling his petty problems when hers were so systemic they felt impossible to solve. He wanted to calm her fears and right every wrong in one fell swoop.
Ultimately, all he could do was tell her that he believed in her. It’s what he’d want if he were in her situation.
He rose, then slid into her side of the booth. He sighed, grateful when she didn’t push him away.
“They don’t deserve you because you’re not a box to be checked. You’re not a Company Man. I mean that figuratively, of course.”
When she faced him, her smile was steeped in sadness. It pained him to see it.
“What am I then?” she asked.
That look of vulnerability on her face gave him courage to show some of his own. He smiled.
“You’re an artist, like me. It’s in how you talk and the way you genuinely want to connect with people. I do it on stage, but you—you do it on the page. And it’s beautiful. So much that I think you’re destined for more thanLandmark. You could leave and do your own thing.”
She slid her hands into her lap. “That’s nice of you to say, but things move differently for us non-famous people. It can be really hard to start over.”
When she looked back at him, the sparkle in her eyes had dimmed. He desperately wanted to get it back.
It was a bold move, but he gently clasped one of his hands over hers, testing the waters. She let him.
Breath shaky, he exhaled. “What if we’re not so different?”
And bingo.
Slowly, she smiled. “I’m starting to believe that.”
At the Skylight, everyone knew him, and people were respectful about not recording him on their phones. But it was still a risk, considering Brinton wasn’t one of his team’s hand-selected women whose social currency would boost his own.
Brinton didn’t deserve to be used like that. He wouldn’t kiss her so openly, despite the nagging urge that’d sparked when she slid into Michael’s SUV.
But he needed to becloser.
“You wanna dance?” he asked.
That would be easier to pull off. He nodded to the much smaller VIP dance floor tucked into a darkened corner about ten feet away.
