Page 40 of Fractured Destiny

No.

I pull my attention back to Levi.

I’m not allowing me to think of Lake this way. Not now. Not ever.

My life has changed. I’m not done healing.

Levi finishes his hot chocolate, sighs with complete satisfaction, and settles against my side. Across the table, Lake watches him with the same quiet expression he wore on the beach.

My son deserves to know his father.

I won’t do anything to mess it up.

eleven

A Few Weeks Later

It made perfect sense to come back here to record my second album.

Ty’s studio feels like a second home at this point.

I know every inch of this control room like the back of my hand. I’ve crashed on the couch more nights than I can count. Zoey leaves me treats in the little kitchen, where the coffee pot is always full. Tonight: fresh blueberry scones.

Words can’t express how grateful I am to my found family. Linus knew I’d need some sense of familiarity to balance my career with my newfound fatherhood. Rather than spend months in LA as we originally planned, he convinced Ty to move some things around so it would be possible to stay in Seattle so I could be close to Levi.

As important as this record is, time with my son is higher on the priority list.

Always will be.

Anyway, the record’s nearly finished. Today, we should complete the final mix. Adjusting half a decibel on the bass. Correcting a vocal sitting a touch too dry. Fixing the levels on an acoustic part. Tiny imperfections nobody outside this room would likely ever notice.

I would, though. Same with Ty.

He leans over the SSL, shaving another fraction off the compressor on Little Hand. We’ve been buried inside these mixes for days. The tracks have stopped being songs and are like math problems at this point.

Everyone’s happy with the new stuff. It has a completely different vibe than my first album, which was written in motel rooms while we played to empty rooms around the country. Neeley dominated my thoughts at that point and I truly believed I’d spend the rest of my life alone chasing people who never stayed.

This time, every song has taken me somewhere I didn’t expect.

“Going to try another decibel down low,” Ty mutters, eyes fixed on the meters.

The studio door swings open. “My brother.”

Zane Rocks crosses the room and plops down between me and Ty.

Most people know him as the guitarist who helped Ty build their band, LTZ, into one of the biggest acts in the world. He also owns The Mission, where I met Noa when she went by Neeley. I’ve gotten to know him well ever since I became part of the Rainier Foundation. He’s a guy who wanders in without knocking, raids the fridge, hijacks recording sessions, and somehow charms everyone in his vicinity at the same time.

He claps a hand across the back of my neck. “Tell me you’re not still at it.”

“I’m still comping fucking vocals.” Ty snorts.

“Christ. How you holdin’ up, kid?” He still calls me kid. Probably always will. He leans over the console, “What’re we listening to?”

Ty answers by pressing play. Little Hand fills the room.

The vocal still sits a touch too dry and the bass wants another half decibel underneath it. Normally I’d stop the playback, but I want Zane’s opinion first. Ty glances sideways at me and I motion for him to let it play out. Zane’s eyes are squeezed shut, forearms on his knees, listening the way musicians do after decades of making records.

He doesn’t react until the last note disappears when he lets out a slow whistle. “Fuck me.”