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Music and women.

Usually he said it while handing me a drink I hadn’t requested and pointing me toward another meet-and-greet.

You’re the face, Fox. Smile, flirt and sing.

The flirting still works.

The singing isn’t the problem either.

It’s everything before the singing—the part where I’m supposed to pull something honest out of myself and turn it into words. Being creative is hard; I know that makes me sound like a whiny fucking brat, but it is. It’s not like I can just sit down and do it. If it’s blocked, sometimes it’s just fucking blocked, and it feels like nothing will unblock it.

Forty minutes later, I have an empty coffee mug, six deleted voice memos, and the same opening riff circling back on itself.

I play it again.

Good riff. Strong progression. Absolutely nowhere to go after it.

Apparently, Oliver’s question followed me home.

What happens if you don’t write anything?

“Fuck off,” I mutter, although Oliver is now several blocks away and can’t enjoy the victory.

I set the guitar beside me and open my A&P notes.

If I can’t write, I can at least study.

That lasts thirty minutes.

I read the first paragraph on the lymphatic system four times, and my brain treats every sentence like it’s written in smoke. Without Bea sitting across from me, tapping her red pen against whatever I’ve got wrong, the page might as well be blank.

I write lymph node on the practice sheet.

I know what a lymph node is. I own several hundred of them.

At this precise moment, the only information I can produce is:

Associated with illness. Important.

My phone rings.

Eli.

“‘Sup?” I ask.

“The bridge on Seventeen Miles isn’t working.”

“Still?”

“Fuck you.” He grumbles. “It sounds like a car insurance ad.”

“Play it.”

“So demanding.”

“You called me.”

He mutters something insulting and picks up his guitar.