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Everything is run-down. The central yard is a large patch of dirt, a few overgrown tufts of grass sticking up in random spots. I follow treads that have already been imprinted in the earth, rolling to a stop alongside a rusted red pickup truck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The navigation system cheerfully informs me I’ve arrived at my destination.
I pull in a deep breath, then open the car door. A few final trickles of water slide down my ankles, but at least I missed soaking my dress.
The humidity hits me first, thick and sticky. Closely followed by the smell of animals and hay, beneath it the ripe scent of manure. I inhale deeply, reflexively, and I’m immediately transported to another place and time.
A slamming door distracts me. I turn toward the house, something strange getting stuck in my throat as Kyle Spencer appears on the porch.
It’s been nearly a year since I last saw him, right before he departed on his latest tour. And it was under very different circumstances—in an office with lots of other people around. Phones ringing and fingers typing.
Not this heavy silence as oppressive as the Texas heat.
I wait.
For a smile. An acknowledgment.
Kyle Spencer has always been quick with both. I’ve seen the videos of him patiently indulging his fans, laughing and joking through every interaction. From a PR perspective, he’s a dream client.
It rankled me, seeing that charm I was certain must be an act.
But I witnessed it in person, during four years of meetings when he was attentive and accommodating. That affability bothered me too—for reasons I still can’t make sense of.
So, this feels like a twisted karma, watching him lean against the porch baluster, wearing a serious, annoyed expression.
Ironic—how the one time he appears to be in a bad mood, it’s aimed solely at me. No satisfaction appears from the thought that maybe I was right andgood guywas an act all along.
Dread crystallizes, spiraling through me.
All my hopeful thoughts on the plane—one quick conversation, and I’ll be headed back home to my important new job—drift away in the cloud of dust my rental car kicked up.
The hard flintiness in Kyle’s expression makes it obvious my presence is unwelcome. Much firmer and much angrier than the reception I was expecting.
At worst, I thought he might make fun of our past encounters. Tease me about the time he overheard me begging Harper for dick details about her hot hockey boyfriend. Not look like I personally offended him by rolling up his driveway.
I swallow as I approach the porch, heat and nerves making my skin prickle with sweat. My heels sink into the exposed earth. The rippling air seems to thicken, becoming significantly more difficult to draw into my lungs. Dust coats my hair and clothes and tongue, leaving an unpleasant, chalky aftertaste behind.
Kyle doesn’t move or react as I cross the yard that’s mostly dirt, his posture tense and unyielding. His mouth is a terse line, and the worn brim of a cowboy hat shades his eyes. The distinctive shape should look ridiculous on him. The only other time I’ve seen someone wear such a wide brim was for Halloween. But it somehow looks anything but absurd, paired with a dirty pair of jeans and a T-shirt I think was originally white. He looks rugged and masculine and nothing like every other time we’ve met in person.
Ten feet from the front porch, I speak. “Hello, Kyle. I’m—”
He interrupts me with a clipped, “I know who you are.”
Oh-kay then.
There’s no crack in his stoic expression. No recognition. And still absolutely no sign of the easygoing, smiling guy who’s shown up at the label’s New York office.
Carl did sayrefusingto re-sign, I guess. I made the confident mistake of thinking me not wanting to be here wouldn’t equal him not wanting me here.
He’s a musician with an ego. I’m here to stroke it. I thought that would be a point in my favor, not against me.
I clear my throat, both because standing and staring at each other in silence is awkward and because I’m still suffering from dust inhalation.
Before I can manage a single word, he tells me, “My mind is made up. This is a waste of my time—and yours.”
I open my mouth to speak, although what I’ll actuallysay, I have no clue.
