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“Alright,” Coen says. “Gonna head out.”

He kisses Sabrina goodbye, and we sit in silence until his footsteps die away.

“I’m gonna head upstairs,” I say nonchalantly.

Sabrina bites the inside of her cheek. “Okay, that’s fine.”

Sometimes, she reminds me so much of Mom, looking at me with badly concealed anxiety. I wonder if she knows that. Warmth gathers in my chest. I didn’t grow up with Mom around, but I did have Sabrina. She never shamed me, never attacked me for any mistakes. Both she and Mom are good people, and I know if whatever happens gets out of control, I can go to them. I just want to try handling this without Sabrina or Coen.

Upstairs, I close my door and take my phone out.

Time to call the one person who knows exactly what to do.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

JAMIE

I’m thinking of releasing Lenny from his contract.

Standing on the curb, I squint one way, then the other. The sun is sinking on Ballpark, Texas, a little town outside the studio near Houston. It’s hot, but so dry it doesn’t bother me too much beyond the trickle of sweat down my back.

Marion won’t like it, but I’m starting to realize I don’t have the patience for difficult clients. But it’s not just that he’s difficult. I’ve noticed he has a lot of bad relationships with other people; he causes fights where there shouldn’t be fights.

On a photoshoot set the other day, I came around the corner and caught him berating the woman assigned to help keep him on schedule. Worse, she worked for us at ITA, not for him. He cussed out one of my people. That bothered me the most. And it’ll bother Marion, too.

My patience is wearing thin. All I want to do is go home to Maine. Or better yet, fly to Wyoming and see Serena.

My phone rings. Startled, I blink and give my head a shake, pulling it from my pocket.

Serena.

Immediately, I swipe and put it to my ear. “Hey, baby. You alright?”

“Yeah,” she says breathlessly.

Silence. I wait, but she doesn’t continue.

“Something wrong?” I press.

“So, I wrote a song,” she says.

“Okay?”

“And I posted it online, and I woke up to a lot of views. Like a lot, more than I’ve ever had. And then, I got this email, but I can’t tell whether it’s real.”

My stomach dives. It’s not unheard of in the age of social media for a small artist to blow up and agents and production companies to pounce on it. In fact, it’s becoming more common. But it’s still a messy situation because a lot of the first wave of interest comes from people she wouldn’t want on her team.

“Okay, was it an agent?”

“An agency, I think,” she whispers.

“Screenshot the email and send it to me.”

I pull the phone from my ear, putting her on speaker. It takes a second before it appears on my phone, and I click into it to examine it closer.

Well, I’ll be damned. It’s from Jenna at MET.

“It’s real,” I say.