Page 172 of Love Felt Like This

“That’s right! We can play the E song too.”

Jimmy shoves a palm through his hair. “We aren’t…” But one look at Ava’s doe eyes has him exhaling sharp air through his nose. “Fine. Yes. We’ll play this E song. Then we record album music.”

Ava smiles, but it doesn’t have the feverish excitement it might have had before Beverly and Elk Grove. Part of me—the tiniest part—wonders if the lack of excitement is evident on my face too.

I love my career. I love recording albums. I love how notes slide from every twitch of my fingers. But…everything seems superfluous now. What’s the point of success if I can’t be near my daughter in public? If I can’t see Beverly when I want?

These past couple of months, I was finally able to take care of Ava without worry—we could visit a farmers’ market, eat at a diner, play outside…I could be that dad for once. A dad Robin wanted me to be.

I could play piano.

I could laugh with a beautiful woman.

I could brew coffee for her as the sun rose over foggy mountains.

I could be someone other than Rock Star Griffin Harvey.

But at the end of the day…I am Rock Star Griffin Harvey.

I’m the guitar guy.

The famous musician with an album to write and a tour to perform.

The guys depend on me. Jimmy depends on me. Ava depends on me.

It doesn’t matter what I want.

I look at my phone again. Not a single response.

Beverly loves her busy life, and it would be selfish to drag her into mine.

Chapter Thirty-Six

No Famous Anything

Beverly

“You’ve got Bernie?”

“Got him.”

“And extra underwear?”

“Mom.”

“Beverly.”

I pat my suitcase, sitting next to the den door. “Yes.”

Momma takes my face between her palms and kisses my cheek before jerking me into a tight hug. You’d think I’m heading out to battle—not to LA to perform puppetry for Connection executives. But I am exhausted, and I could fall asleep in Momma’s arms if she hugged me for much longer.

It’s been two weeks of finalizing my pitch. I don’t know where sleep ends and work begins anymore. Every room I enter becomes a tornado of papers and verbal brainstorming, coaxed on by my cramped typing fingers. Rob says I look like an organ-playing Phantom of the Opera, with how hard I slam down on my keyboard. Maybe I am a phantom, haunting myself at night.

I have all my research, scripts, and song lyrics. Griffin and I never got around to recording the songs in full, but that’s okay. He’s done more than enough, and I won’t ask him for more.

Our texts keep passing like ships in the night. He’s recording his album now, and studio days are just as long as my prep days. Honestly, the thought of our complicated situation makes my stomach smart too easily, and sometimes I think I’ll puke or pass out. Maybe both.

“You’ll call?” Mom asks, holding me out by my shoulders.