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"I'm terrified, yeah. She's your type. And she's gorgeous. And it's an intimate thing, writing a song with someone."
"But we're over-over."
"No," he says. "I hope not, at least. But I don't want to ask you to wait, either. I don't know how long it will be and I don't want to clip your wings."
"As a woman or a songwriter?"
"Both."
Fuck. I was afraid he'd say that.
"I'm sorry. I thought I could do this and not that, but if I write another song with you, I'll fall even more in love with you, and I need space by myself, to get healthy. All the way healthy."
I blink back a tear. "How much time are we talking?"
"Cass."
"You don't know, sure, but a ballpark, maybe?"
"Six months, I hope."
Fuck, that's a long time. But if it's what he needs, it's what he needs. "Okay."
"Just okay?" he asks. "I was expecting a little more fire."
"Okay, how about, take the time you need, but I'll fucking kill you if you approach another songwriter first."
He smiles. "That's better."
"And if I find out you're sleeping with someone else, I'll kidnap you, lock you in the closet, and force you to listen to your dad's records all day."
"Brutal."
"But fair," I say.
He smiles. "Absolutely."
My heart thuds against my chest. I want to stay here and melt into him. But I can wait. If that's what he needs, I can wait. "What do we do while we're waiting?"
"This." He motions to the sand and sits.
I sit next to him. "Really, this?"
"No, absolutely not. You'll tear my clothes off. But today, we do this." He smiles. "Now, what do you want to sing?"
"What do you mean, sing?"
"I'm guitar. You're vocals. So what does Cassie Steele want to scream to the Pacific Ocean?"
"What about, I do, in fact, want to tear off Damon Webb's clothes, but I'm going to learn to keep my hands to myself."
"I don't know how that one goes. You'll have to hum it for me."
I sing, speak. "I think it goes… I fucking hate waiting, but it might just be worth it."
Chapter Thirty-Nine
A little more than six months later…
(Eight point five months, to be exact)
(Not that anyone is counting)
Cassie
My phone flashes with an alert.
Meeting with Damon Webb in two hours.
One hundred and twenty minutes.
Not that I've been counting the days. Not exactly. It's not as if we no longer see each other.
He comes to Daphne's gatherings. I occasionally join the newly instated Webb family dinner night. We run into each other at mixers. Or parties. Or lobbies.
It's been a while since we've kissed, but we've been friends all this time. We talk. We trade notes on lyrics and melodies. We tease each other about our favorite movies.
I never ask if he's ready.
He never asks if I've moved on to someone else.
Not because we can't handle honesty. Because it's not time yet. Because we both know he'll be ready when he's ready.
I set my phone on the table face down and sit at the piano bench. The one in my office. It's a small space, but it's all mine.
This tiny little apartment is all mine.
Even after three months, I'm not used to living alone. I wake up and expect to hear my parents' laughter. Or a partner's humming. I'd rather live with someone else—I almost asked Daphne if she wanted to room together—but I decided to spare her the agony of hearing the same riff a hundred times in a row.
Besides, I needed the time and space to myself too. Space to grieve and grow and get in touch with exactly what I want.
I reach for my phone. Stop myself before I can turn it over.
Damon and I are meeting in a professional capacity. Bryce's manager wants us to work with a new client.
We haven't worked together yet.
I've been on my own there too.
I pull up my computer instead of checking my cell. I read the email from the manager again. I check my notes.
The guy wants a Jagged Little Pill for the twenty-first century. No doubt, he wants the multi-platinum success, but he knows it looks different these days. Streams and sold-out venues and viral sounds on TikTok.
I listen to the artist's demo. She sounds like Lisa. Her voice is an octave lower, and she's got a bigger range, but she hits the same emotional beats.
Anger and righteous indignation give way to hurt and vulnerability.
A part of me hates that. A part of me hates that she can't stay angry, all the time, always. But the other part knows better.
Anger is a good thing a lot of the time. But too much and it overtakes you.
She's able to let go. Not because it brings her closer to society's ideal of a quiet woman. Not to let the ex who hurt her off the hook.
Because she can't hold on to it any longer.
