He offers his hand, and his handshake is firm, practiced, exactly calibrated for maximum professional impact.
“I’m an executive with Horizon Pictures." He pulls out a card—thick stock, embossed lettering—and hands it to me but I don’t bother looking at it. "My team's been trying to reach you about a project."
My phone, heavy in my pocket, buzzes with another text like it's emphasizing his point.
To be honest, it feels like it's been buzzing for days—numbers I don't recognize, messages I haven't had the headspace to open, opportunities I've been too distracted to consider.
"We're developing a film adaptation of a New York Times bestseller," he continues. "We'd love for you to produce the opening track. Possibly the full score if the first piece resonates with the director's vision."
Now I remember the email sitting in my inbox with a red flag I added days ago.
"Right, I got the email," I say, trying to sound more professional than I feel standing here with a box of apology pastries. "Life's been a little crazy, but I'll take a look at it this week. Promise."
He nods, unfazed by what probably sounds like a blow-off. "We're on a tight timeline, but I understand. The author's been... difficult to reach lately as well, so we're all working around some complications."
Something in his tone makes my attention sharpen, but I can't place why.
"We'll be in touch," he says. "Looking forward to working with you, Nate."
As he walks toward the door, I notice the way he pulls out his phone, checks it with the kind of frustrated urgency that speaks of unanswered calls and ignored messages.
I pocket the card and make my way to the exit, the encounter leaving a sour taste in my mouth that has nothing to do with the coffee.
As I'm walking to the car, I check my phone to see who messaged.
My heart does something complicated when I see her name.
Nora
I'm sorry about yesterday. Can we talk?
The message is from twenty minutes ago and exactly what I've been hoping for while simultaneously dreading.
I stare at it for longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The coffee in my hand is getting cold.
Finally, I type back:
Nate
Nothing to apologize for. I overstepped.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Until they disappear, again.
The lake air is cool when I pull up to Nora's cabin ten minutes later. Her porch light is on even though it's full daylight, like she forgot to turn it off this morning. Or like she's been up all night.
I grab the coffee and Cinnabons from the passenger seat, nerves doing something uncomfortable in my stomach.
This feels bigger than an apology. I knock but no one answers.
I have the key, could open the door and leave the coffee and cinnabons inside, but that would feel like a breach of her privacy.
So I decide to leave them on the table on the porch with a note on the back of the receipt.
The studio feelswrong without Tommy's guitar cutting through the air. I notice it the moment I walk in—the absence like a missing tooth, something fundamentally off about the space.
His lamp sits silent in the corner. His chair is empty. Even his usual clutter—picks scattered across the desk, half-empty water bottles, the notebook where he scribbles lyrics—is gone.
