Page 169 of The Encore’s Crown

Kiri

I’m useless in the studio.

My hands still know what they’re doing. I can lock into Ronan’s kick, find the line beneath Rithy’s guitar, hear when a section is too crowded or a transition needs another bar. But the second we stop playing, my brain leaves the building.

Back to Seattle. Back to Natalia, to every place I touched her and every place I plan to again.

“Again,” the producer says through the talkback.

I lift my bass into position while Ronan taps his sticks together. My phone buzzes on the stool beside me. I don’t look at it. Rithy does. His eyes flick toward the screen, then to me, his mouth twitching.

Ronan notices. “What?”

“I remembered Kiri owes me money.”

“I don’t owe you shit.”

The count comes in before Ronan can ask anything else. I make it through the take, then immediately reach for my phone.

The perfume post is up. Go make yourself useful.

A picture follows. Natalia in front of her mirror, golden hair over one shoulder, lips painted red, holding the bottle near her throat like the entire brand was designed to make me lose concentration. I stare longer than I should.

Rafe glances over from where he’s listening to playback. “Something wrong?”

Rithy coughs into his fist to hide a laugh. I like the post, save it, then send her a message beneath the edge of the console.

you’re wearing that dress when I get back

Maybe I’ll wear nothing instead.

I swallow hard.

“Kiri,” the producer says through the speakers.

I lock the screen. “Yeah?”

“Would you like to participate in the album?”

Ronan grins. “Whoever she is, she better be worth the decline in musicianship.”

My head snaps toward him.

He raises both hands. “I don’t know anything. You’ve just been staring at your phone like a teenager for weeks.”

Rafe barely looks interested. “Can we record before this becomes a sleepover? Kiri's found a groupie to distract him in L.A., news at eleven. Shock of the century.”

I want them to think it’s some random woman. That I’ve finally found a distraction in Los Angeles that I'll forget about when we leave.

Rithy's the only one who knows the truth. Late one night, after everyone else leaves, he follows me out of the studio and into a diner two blocks away. The place is nearly empty, booths covered in cracked red vinyl, fluorescent lights, and coffee strong enough to pretend everything's fine.

Rithy sits across from me stirring sugar into a cup he hasn’t touched.

Rithy leans back. “You know the longer you hide this, the worse it gets.”

“I know.”

Rithy shakes his head. “You can’t keep acting like this is some harmless secret.”