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“Yes, I know,” he says.

“I’m just so freakin’ mad. Why Cal? Why did you write that? You knew people would figure it out. I told you I didn’t want to be a muse or famous or anything. You knew⁠—”

“I know. But please believe me, Bea, when I say I didn’t want any of this to happen. I was working on other lyrics. I only sent the song to my manager Danny. I’m trying to fix it.”

“And?”

His jaw moves. “A leak isn’t a loss to Danny. It’s a fucking appetizer for the album. I know he leaked it. And I’m so fucking sorry.”

The cold goes all the way through me. “Did you actually think that he wouldn’t?”

He looks confused.

“Cal, this is the same guy who sent press to photograph you and that woman.” He flinches. “I feel like you knew this was a possibility but just didn’t care. Do you understand that this is exactly what I didn’t want for my life? I don’t want to be talked about and dissected by your fans. I want to have a serious career, and right now, this whole thing could be getting in the way of that.”

Silence on the porch.

A car goes past. Somewhere down the street, with cosmic timing, someone’s window is down, and for two seconds the chorus of the leaked verse floats up the road and away. We both hear it.

“It doesn’t name you,” he says, quietly. “I swear to God, Bea, when I wrote it I— It doesn’t say your name. I thought— It’s a song. It could be anyone —”

“There is a thread online,” I say, “called who is the tutor, with my name in it, my photograph in it. You wrote me precisely enough that strangers figured it out. So, no, it could not be anyone. It was never going to be anyone. You sold us.”

“Oh, come on! I didn’t sell⁠—”

I interrupt him. “You sent the most private thoughts about us to your manager to get a record deal. Whatever word you want, that’s a fucking transaction. You put your music before me, and you didn’t tell me you’d done it, and I have spent four days waiting for you to give me a reason not to believe that.”

You said you loved me. Did you mean it? Or was it just for the song?

My heart pounds against my chest, but I don’t have it in me to ask.

He shuts his eyes for a second.

“It wasn’t —” He stops. “It was the first good song I’d written in eight months. The first proof I had that I can write and that I’m not a total fraud. And, listen to me Bea, I was never going to release it. I’ve been working with Harrison on an alternate lyrics version, which would’ve been the actual record. I shouldn’t have even sent it. I’m sorry. And I’m so sorry I haven’t been the right guy for you. I promise I’ll try harder. There’s just a lot going on right now.” He does look stressed. But right now, I couldn’t give a shit. I’m stressed too. I have the biggest exam of my life coming up, which will literally dictate my whole future, which I’ve been working towards for as long as I can remember, and right now, he is only adding stress to my life.

“Yeah, a lot going on? Like the money thing?” He looks pained, but I keep going. “You can’t expect me to keep blindly trusting you, Cal. I know you got burned before, and I’m sorry about that, but to assume that everyone is going to hurt you like that is only pushing people away.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Oh god.

The committee letter. Do med schools care who you’re dating? They shouldn’t, but…

“Now. I have to go. I need to find out if this whole thing being online is going to affect my committee letter.”

The phone in his hand buzzes. He doesn’t look at it. It buzzes again.

“Bea, please just give me five more minutes to explain.”

“Twelve days,” I say.

“What?”

“My exam is in twelve days. There are photographers at the end of my street, and somewhere this morning, my program coordinator is going to read about my fucking fling with a rockstar.” He flinches at that, and I don’t care. “I’ve built my life, Cal. Brick by brick, for more than ten years, and your world might destroy it. I’m done.”

His face tightens. “I’m trying to fix this, Bea! The photographers are leaving. Nobody from the band is commenting, nobody is using your name, and we’ve asked every outlet we can to not to identify you.” He drags a hand through his messy hair. “I know I can’t control this. I fucked up. Bea, I’m sorry, I’m doing what I can.”

I shake my head. It’s all too much for me to process right now. “Go home, Cal.”