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“I’ll think about it,” I relent.
“Here, here.” Carson lifts his wineglass.
Chuckling, I clink my glass against his and we drink.
The conversation moves on to easier topics.
We talk about the weekend camp coming up in December, which Oliver is going to be present for since it’s the soft opening of the kids camp he owns with Finley. They are planning some kind of winter forest science thing for kids. I half listen.
Through it all, the idea of starting my own label sticks in my mind like lint stuck in honey.
What if I went for it?
More importantly, what if it worked out?
* * *
The next morning, I’m in bed staring at the ceiling as it brightens with the encroaching day, lamenting my life choices, when my phone chimes with a text.
I pluck it from the nightstand. It’s from my former assistant, Ally.
Did you see the Page Seven article?
She’s been keeping me in the loop, businesswise, ever since I left Rebel Records. She’s the one who told me when they extended Blake’s contract, offered Vacation Mustache more money, and basically rewarded him for the same mess that got me fired.
Her text is immediately followed by a link to the article.
The headline reads “Blake Bonham on his New Album: ‘My most personal project to date.’ ”
My stomach lurches. I sit up in bed so quickly that I’m almost lightheaded.
Oh, shit.
I click the link against my better judgment.
The album title isRevelations.
My teeth clench. I resist the urge to chuck my phone across the room.
This is so typical.
I skim the article, which waxes on about how Blake is finally “getting vulnerable” with his listeners and “really opening up old wounds.” The author waxes on about how Blake’s tumultuous past year, full ofmistakesand learning experiences, gave him the opportunity to really dig in and inject emotional authenticity into his lyrics.
Motherfucker.
Mistake?
Is that what I was to him?
It shouldn’t hurt, but it does.
Why is it that men can spin the stories of how they cheat and lie and all kinds of shitty behavior and everyone’s like, “They’re so deep and vulnerable!” But if a woman sings about her relationships, it’s all judgment and criticism: “Why can’t she be more creative, write about something else, date less, orbeless?”
Blake and I both made a mistake, except while I got fired and lost my life’s work, he got more money, a better contract, and critical acclaim.
Anger burns in my gut.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
