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“I finished the lyrics for the next album.”

“Snoh told me Obsydian Trip would be recording again in December. Congratulations, Sugar.”

“That boy told all my business.”

I laughed. “Pretty much. How many songs did you write?”

“Fourteen.”

I nodded. “What’s the album title?”

She left my arms, rolled over me, and climbed out of bed. She grabbed a notebook from her desk drawer, returned to bed, and dropped it into my lap.

“I don’t have a working title yet, but maybe you can read the lyrics and give me your input.”

My eyes widened, and my mouth gaped. “You’re serious?”

“I’m serious,” she reassured, opening the book to the first page.

“Fuck, Sugar. I don’t know if I’m qualified.”

“You’re a die-hard Obsydian Trip fan, and you’re dating two-time Grammy Award-winning lyricist VG. I think that makes you more than qualified.”

“Fuck. Okay. Okay. I can’t screw this up,” I said, giving myself a pep talk and trying not to pass out from excitement.

I spent the next two hours poring over the song lyrics, asking questions, and analyzing the song track titles when it finally hit me.

“I think I got it,” I said, closing the notebook.

Vera straightened and held my gaze. “What are you thinking, Sweet Hart?”

“The Art of Disappearing.”

The tears returned, but they were accompanied by a broad, dazzling smile from the woman I loved.

“Fuck, Sweet Hart. I think we got our album title.”

A Generous Man

Vera

“You’re serious? You finished the songs?” Syrus asked in disbelief.

I entered the elevator and swiped my keycard for the penthouse floor.

“I finished them.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Verydian.”

I smiled, catching my reflection in the elevator’s mirrored wall.

It was strange seeing myself smile so easily when, less than a week ago, I couldn’t have managed a convincing one if my life depended on it. My confession didn’t magically heal me. I still missed my mother, still mourned the home I’d grown up in, and still had moments when sadness and guilt crept up on me without warning.

But for the first time in a long time, my grief didn’t feel quite so heavy. I could carry it without feeling like I was being crushed beneath it.

And that was enough for now until I started therapy.

“I’m not bullshitting you.”