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“I was in my house, in Maine,” I say shortly, turning to walk toward the tent.

“Oh yeah?” He falls into step beside me.

“Getting laid. Any further questions?”

That’s the most unprofessional I’ve ever gotten with him. It takes him a second to recover. He lifts his palms, as if I volunteered the information unprovoked.

“Alright, sorry I asked,” he says.

“I am, too.”

We enter the tent, and I split off, going around to the coffee bar for a foam cup of burnt coffee. Lenny is probably gonna be pissed, he might bitch to Marion, but there’s not much he can do to me. The buck stops here, even though I rarely say that aloud.

I have some acrid coffee and try not to think about Maine.

The crew is staying in a hotel a few miles north of the Canadian border. I get in early and head to my room without speaking to anyone. Being pulled out on a shoot is pretty common for me, but this is the first time I’ve struggled this badly to concentrate. After putting some warmth back into my limbs in the shower, I turn on the electric fireplace and sink against the headboard.

My phone sits on the bedside table. I shouldn’t, but I reach for it and search her name. Her TikTok account comes up, which I’ve stalked several times. Until now, it’s just been selfies and trends. A ripple of surprise tingles through my body and centers in my chest. She’s been posting covers, sitting in her pink sweatsuit at her keyboard.

I click on one. She’s singing a folk song that was popular last summer in her sweet, vibrant voice. Her hands shake a little, but she doesn’t miss a note.

My gut wrenches.

God, she is something special. Not just because I want her… This is the second cover she posted, and it has thirty thousand likes on it.

My throat is tight.

I should put my phone down and forget about it. But I can’t move. So I watch the video again and again, until I’ve memorized every note, every move, every tremor in her hands. Until I can see her on the insides of my eyelids when I close them.

Until I fall asleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

SERENA

The world is different, but somehow the same.

The ranch moves into the hottest months. The fields turn golden brown. The wranglers bring in the harvest, and we rotate the pastures and take the cattle to auction. Nothing ever changes. In my impatient state, it’s killing me.

At least once a week, when the house is quiet, I record another cover. My fingers move over the keyboard, and I force myself to sing some of my favorite songs. Cowboy music is what I called it. In late August, I wake up with the strongest sense of loneliness in my chest. The harvest moon is out, and I can’t sleep for thinking about him.

I get up, put my headphones on, and write my own melody.

The next day, I start putting words to it.

The day after, I record a snippet of the chorus and post it. Of course, I make sure to block everyone in my family who has social media first.

I need privacy to fail.

That’s my first semi-viral video. It reaches almost half a million views and makes me sick to my stomach with excitement and nerves. It also makes me realize that I don’t have a very thick skin for people commenting mean things. Apparently, the way I have my hair isn’t very nice. I go to the store, get some dye and a hair mask, and make it a shade darker. Someone says it’s old-money blonde—I don’t know what that means, but it stops the discussion about my hair for the most part.

After that, the videos start averaging about fifty thousand likes a post.

It scares me. It excites me…

Because Jamie was right.

I might have something.