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She's an angel again.
Only she isn't here to save me.
No one saves anyone.
That's not a fair expectation. And it's not healthy.
It's really fucking unhealthy.
"Hey." Her voice is tired.
"Hey back."
"Stay a sec." She reaches for my hand.
I sit on the bed next to her. Intertwine my fingers with hers.
"I do want to celebrate," she says.
"If we get songs on the album?"
"When we do, yes." Her eyes find mine. "But even if we don't." The haziness in her gorgeous greens fades to clarity. "We did good work. A few of our songs are legitimately great. A few more are fantastic pop songs. We nailed the assignment. Even if Bryce and Lisa's teams don't see that."
We did, I agree. But since when is that her focus? This entire thing has been about the deal. The songs. "You don't care if we get songs on the albums?"
"I care. I care a lot. That will impact my life in a big way. I need the royalties, and the exposure, and I want the success. But I get that now. I want the success. I don't need the success."
What is she talking about?
She continues. "I know you need the money too, but—"
"I'll survive without it." I have options. I have family and friends who are willing to bail me out. A lot of people aren't so lucky.
She nods. "And there will be other opportunities. But it's not that, exactly. It's more…" Her eyes go to the ceiling. She drifts into a dream. "Do you remember all those conversations we had under the stars?"
We spent a million nights in the backyard or on the beach, talking about everything and nothing. That was a long time ago. I don't remember all of it. But I remember the feeling of being around her. The desire to know more of her, the pride at her growth, the need to share.
It felt good.
It still does.
"Which ones?" I ask.
"When we talked about music."
"That doesn't narrow it down."
She smiles true. "Do you remember how we dreamed about the future? Sometimes, it was Grammys and mansions and touring the world. But usually, it was the little things. We wanted to write a great song, for the pure love of music. Or because we needed to express an idea. Or because we wanted to feel understood. We wrote because we loved music. And we wanted to get better for the same reason. Not to get better deals or make more money or make our exes cry."
"I think that one was you."
She nods. "Yeah, it was. And a part of me still wants that. A lot of me still wants the money and the deals. But I'm still that girl who sits with her sketchbook."
"You want to celebrate her?"
Again, she nods. "Her. And us. We did great work. Whatever happens, we should stop, and pat ourselves on the back."
She's right. I don't think about the love of the art anymore. Not often. I have, with her, but that's new. And we've still focused on results.
It feels good to remember that.
Terrifying, but in a good way. Like facing the truth.
"You're wise," I say.
"Sometimes." I offer her my hand. "You killed it, Cass."
"I know."
My lips curl into a smile.
"But thank you for saying it." She shakes. "You killed it too." She returns my easy smile. "We make a good team, Damon Webb." She uses the grip to pull herself up to a seated position. "But now, I'm going to crash." She presses her lips to mine. A soft, sweet kiss.
This one is all for me too.
We've never discussed what happens after the end of the contract. Or when we'll stop faking it.
But then, this is real. My feelings for her are real. My protective instinct is real.
I love Cassie Steele.
And that's also terrifying and beautiful and wonderful.
And intoxicating.
And that part is a problem.
I swim a few dozen laps, shower, check my phone for news.
Nothing from the team. Something from Dad.
Dad: Heard through the grapevine. So far, you've got six songs on Bryce Bradey's new album. Three singles. And Lisa wants to work with you exclusively. I'm so proud of you, Cass-a-frass.
Wait.
This isn't my phone.
This is Cassie's phone. We have the same new iPhone everyone has.
I should stop reading, but something on the screen draws my eye.
Dad: You and Damon made a good team.
Dad: Can we talk about that? Mom made me promise not to interfere. I won't. I won't judge, I promise. I just want to make sure you're both ready for this.
He doesn't say what this is, but I can guess.
The creative partnership.
The relationship.
The life as a recovering alcoholic's loved one.
He's right.
We're not ready for it.
At least, I'm not.
I love Cassie Steele. I want to spend every minute soaking up the unadulterated pleasure I feel in her presence.
I want to make her my new medicine.
And that's why I need to end this.
