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She talks, getting everything off her chest. I make mental notes for later.
I get back to the hotel early. After dropping Madi off at her home, I have a video meeting in my room. We’ve got a music video shoot coming up, and Marion can’t make it. It’s my client anyway, but she expressed wanting to be there for it. The client is a bit upset, but I smooth things over and assure him I’ll be present.
It’s late when I’m done with work. I order food, but don’t feel like eating.
Instead, I take out my phone and navigate to Serena’s Instagram account. She posted a photo of herself in a mirror, wearing one of the hoodies I bought her. The song on the image is a Springsteen one. It starts playing softly when I tap the photo. A pit forms in my stomach, a little sad, a little lonely.
Me and my dad used to listen to this one a lot. When I drove out to meet my aunt in California, it was playing from an ancient tape in the car stereo. God, that was a million years ago when I was a wrangler from Wyoming, with a blank slate ahead of him.
That was when cowboy music was just that. Now, when I turn on the radio, I know every name, every producer, every record company. The thing I loved so much is just work now, and I’m burned out on it. But as I look at Serena, I’m transported back to when everything was new and exciting.
And I have the deep urge to chase that, to chase it all the way to her.
My chest hurts a little bit. I turn the phone off and go to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SERENA
Mom’s house is empty when I get back. I didn’t tell her I was coming so I wouldn’t have to answer questions over text. A little bit of me hoped she’d be home so I could crash on the couch with some tea and cry about everything. Except for the whole music thing because it’s so hard to say that out loud. Not many people get a chance at that as a career. It’s a one-in-a-million dream.
That’s why I never thought about it seriously.
Until him.
In my room, I shower and curl up in a sweatsuit with Derry, panting on the end of the bed. For a minute, I scroll on my phone. Then, I open my social media apps one by one and wonder what I would do if I had the courage to just post something.
If I do that, I could fail.
I could be hurt. Exposed to ridicule.
Rolling onto my back, I stare at the ceiling. He said I was good, that I had something, but he also said he wouldn’t sign me, which I understand. I haven’t proven myself. It would be so much easier to know what I’m feeling if he weren’t so closed off. Now that I’m thinking about it, he really didn’t open up to me at all. I talked a little. He was a stone wall.
My eyes are dry. I turn to my side and reach for a bottle of sleeping pills tucked in the bedside table, popping one on my tongue.
I have a feeling I won’t rest well for a while.
The next morning, I wake to a heavy sensation on my chest. Tears linger somewhere just below the surface. As I drag myself into the shower, I can tell it’s going to be a rough few days. Mom texted me during the night to say she’d be home by nine, which means I’ll have to explain what happened. At least, some of it. The really dirty parts can stay between me and him. And the real reason it didn’t work out.
I put on another sweatsuit because I need the comfort and haul my ass downstairs to let Derry out. While he sniffs in the yard, I make a cup of coffee and sit on the porch, legs folded and hood up to blunt the early sunshine. The hot mug sears my fingers. Inside, it feels like nothing.
Why am I so cut up over a man I never actually dated?
Did I really think he was going to be anything more than sex? Am I delusional enough to think that bigshot agent Jamie Iron was going to put a ring on my finger and take me all the way to stardom, like this is a Hollywood romcom?
I swallow past the dry lump in my throat.
I guess, deep down, I did. Because this hurts so much.
A door slams in the house. Sitting up, I wipe my face and whistle for Derry, who runs up the steps onto the patio. He shoves his head under my hand, panting hard, tail swishing. It’s nice to have him; it fills the homesickness for the ranch a little bit.
“Hey, honey.”
I push my hood back and sit up, smiling as Mom steps out. She’s in one of her travel tracksuits, holding an almost-empty iced coffee.
“You must have just got up,” she says.
She’s being careful, not going straight to the point. I stand and stretch, every joint popping. That probably has more to do with the workout Jamie put me through than being cooped up on a plane.
