Page 295 of End Game

“Terrible boyfriend.”

“I thought we were doing honesty.”

I look away.

He continues, “You could also go to Chicago, write nothing they use, have a great month, come home, and get another bar job.”

“Fantastic.”

“Or you could write something.”

My stomach flips.

“Don't.”

“Something that makes the album.”

“Micah.”

“And somebody else could hear it.”

“Please stop helping.”

“And they could ask you to write.”

I shove my hands into my hair. “Exactly.”

He goes quiet.

I laugh, except nothing is funny. “That's the fucking problem.”

Micah watches me.

“What if this isn't one month?”

There.

I finally said it.

“What if it's another session after that? Or Austin calls and wants me in LA for a week? Or somebody wants me to guest at a show? Or Signal Saints tours, and they want me to play a couple dates because I helped write something?”

Micah doesn't interrupt.

“What if Grave Intentions starts getting better gigs because my name suddenly means something? What if I actually start making money doing music and the bar becomes the thing I have to fit around it instead of the other way around?”

My breathing is getting too fast.

I know it.

Can't seem to stop.

“What if I like that?”

Micah's brow furrows slightly. “Why wouldn't you?”

“Because I like this.” I gesture toward the room.

The house.