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I tap the phone screen, switching from the conversation with Harper to the text thread with my mother.
I messaged her after landing in Texas, letting her know I made it safely. I send a vague response to her response, asking what the trip has been like so far, not wanting to get into how I’m chasing down a singer in the countryside. I’m sure she’d find it ridiculous.
And that’s probably what most people would think.
It’s certainly how Kyle feels, and I don’t blame him at all.
This is a massive invasion of his privacy. But it was awfully naive on his part if he truly thought he could fade into obscurity without anyone asking questions. Setting aside Empire’s obvious investment, Kyle has a reputation for interacting and engaging with his many supporters. Despite not seeing the appeal myself, I can’t deny there’s a massive fan base who will be devastated if Kyle really walks away.
I looked through all of his social media accounts before leaving New York. No announcements, no pauses in posting. Kyle obviously has a team running all of that for him. More members of the machine. And that team is either unaware of his plans to leave music or is choosing not to announce them.
I stare at my phone for another minute before tossing it on the bed. If I were braver or stupider—I’m not sure which—I’d call up Carl Bergman right now and ask him what the hell he was thinking, sendingmehere. Question why he informed the entire damn office that I’m here and why this morning.
It was only a matter of time until my absence was noticed and gossip spread, but I was hoping for more than one day. Especially now that I have a better sense of how challenging of an assignment this actually is.
No one in the office who’s seen Kyle saunter into a meeting, wearing a relaxed grin and a suit with no tie, would believe the guy who greeted me yesterday exists. I’m pretty sure the poor odds Harper informed me of say more about my attitude than about Kyle’s known affability.
“I’m not changing my mind.”
Those words echo ominously in my head as I get dressed in the same outfit I wore last night and leave the bunkhouse. I’m facing an uphill battle—so steep that the top isn’t even in sight. But I have no choice, except to fight it until I succeed or fail.
Here’s hoping for the former, as unlikely as that’s looking.
Instead of heading straight for the house, I wander toward the closest fence line. A light-brown horse is standing a few dozen feet away, its back bowed and its tail swishing lazily. I click my tongue, and there’s no reaction. He or she just continues grazing. I lean against the rough wood and scan the open horizon.
This place ishuge.
I’m so used to walking down crowded streets, lined with towering skyscrapers. It’s startling—looking ahead and seeing nothing but land stretching uninterrupted, straight and flat.
I step away from the fence, only to discover my shirt snagged on a nail. A tiny rip is visible in the cotton of one of the few T-shirts I packed. I swear under my breath as I walk back in the direction I came. Most of what I packed was work clothes—suit sets and blazers and dresses—that will be totally useless here. I thought I’d make a better impression, showing up to Kyle’s house—his actualhouse, before I realized he lived on a ranch—in professional attire. Now, I realize it will only exaggerate how out of place I am. My comfort zone was left back in New York.
There are trucks and people visible near the largest building—what looks like an open-air barn—so I give it a wide berth. I’d rather not run into anyone and have to explain what I’m doing here.
I stop again at the recording studio. It’s silent and empty, just like yesterday. But its existence is the most promising sign I’ve seen so far. Its construction is recent and its equipment expensive.
Based on the rest of the ranch, Kyle doesn’t spend money excessively—or at all. If he invested in this space, he planned to use it. I just need to figure out what changed his mind so I canunchange it.
My grumbling stomach pulls me toward the main house, in search of breakfast.
Mabel calls out a quiet, “Come in,” after I knock on the screen door.
There’s no sign of Kyle or John in the kitchen.
“Good morning,” I greet, twisting my fingers together anxiously as I approach the counter, where she’s chopping strawberries. There’s an impressive pile of them in a bowl beside her elbow.
“Good morning,” Mabel repeats, barely glancing up before resuming chopping. “You looking for breakfast?”
I nod, knowing my rumbling stomach will answer for me otherwise. The sandwich Kyle made me helped, but overall, I’m running on a major food deficiency.
“Breakfast would be great.”
“There’s cereal in the cabinet and coffee in the pot. And help yourself to some strawberries.” She continues chopping.
“Thanks.”
I already figured out Mabel doesn’t enjoy small talk. And I appreciate it right now because I have no idea what I’d say if she asked how I slept.
Maybe the dark circles under my eyes are answer enough.
