“Here,” she said, handing me my phone. “It was in the storage part of the ottoman. Asher knew where it was.”
“Awesome. Remind me to share your M&M’s with him in the morning.”
She settled into her spot in the corner of the wicker sectional, glass of wine in hand. “Forget it. I already re-hid them.”
“Inside the box of granola doesn’t count as hiding.”
“Dammit,” she hissed, making me laugh.
While double-checking my connection to the Bluetooth speakers on the patio, I stole a glance at her from the corner of my eye. Just as I’d hoped, she was smiling, and it caused my lips to stretch as well. For whatever reason, keeping her in a good mood kept me in one. Making her smile or chuckle hit different now. Also like, if I could just make her feel better, relax, enjoy a goddamned second of peace—even if it was fleeting—then I could allow myself to do the same.
When she laughed, it made things easy on my heart, and she was pretty easy on my eyes too. Although that was probably more to do with my newfound celibacy than any real attraction. But when you’re lonely, it’s easy to confuse friendship with something more. Something I didn’t even let my mind entertain.
As the radio app on my phone filled the humid evening air with an auto parts commercial, I found my spot on the end, pulling the chair over to use as a footrest as usual. Luna had just started to doze off, so I switched the baby monitor for my beer and took a long pull.
“Are you nervous?” she asked.
I ignored the fact that her expression made her look almost excited by the notion that I was anything but cool as a cucumber. “Why would I be?”
She circled her finger around the mouth of her wine glass. “Oh, I don’t know. Because for the last six months there’s been a social media frenzy waiting for Levee Williams’s new album and the first single is your song.”
By all measures, I should have been ecstatic. This was huge. I’d had other songs on the radio before. None performed by artists as big as Levee. “Turning Pages,” the duet she’d recorded with Henry Alexander, had already been picked up prerelease to headline the soundtrack of a major motion picture, which from a royalties perspective would no doubt make it my biggest payday yet. But no matter how much I tried to psych myself up about hearing “Turning Pages’” highly anticipated radio debut, I couldn’t bring myself to get excited.
It was my song. I knew every lyric and every chord and not simply because I had been the one to put the pen to paper. I’d lived that music, and dammit, I should have been the one performing it.
But my life didn’t seem to work that way. The amount I made on gigs was laughable, and after selling the rebuilt house along with the money the insurance had given me for our destroyed contents, I’d stashed away a small nest egg.
Every Friday, Bree had a direct deposit sent to my account.
Every Monday, I had auto pay set to send it right back.
The way I saw it, we swapped childcare. So, unless I paid her for all the nights she kept Luna, I couldn’t allow her to pay me to keep her kids. I paid the little she’d allow me to in rent on the pool house every month, but there were still other bills. Private health insurance was a racket, and then there were groceries, diapers, and industry fees to be paid.
Selling songs was the obvious choice; not to mention it was my final commitment to my wife. Assuming you didn’t count the utter failure of when I told her I’d be right back.
After the last thirteen months of heartbreak and grief, I should have been basking in my success and clinging to whatever happiness I could find. However, watching your dreams come true for someone else never got easier.
“Not my first rodeo, Bree,” I replied before sipping on my beer.
“Maybe not. But I’m proud of you.” She wasn’t being sarcastic as she carelessly wiggled her sandal off the end of her foot. She was—at least for the moment—content, and it showed in her relaxed appearance. “And I know Rob and Jessica would be too.”
With caution, I paired my gaze with hers, a lump forming in my throat. “It was Jessica’s favorite song.”
Proudly, she beamed. “I know. Rob’s too.”
I looked back down at my beer.
Right on time, the radio DJ’s voice rang through the speakers. “And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for: the debut of ‘Turning Pages’ by none other than nine-time Grammy winning artist, Levee Williams, featuring America’s favorite R&B star, Henry Alexander.”
I smirked at the ground because it was what I was supposed to do. Songwriters all across the world waited their entire lives to hear their music on the radio, and there I was wallowing in self-pity. God, I needed to get a grip.
As the intro faded in, the DJ kept talking. “Exclusive WQXX piece of trivia for you. A little birdie informed me today that this song was penned by one of Atlanta’s very own, Eason Maxwell.” My head popped up. “If this one is anything to go by, he might be a name to keep an eye out for.”
No sooner than he finished the last syllable did Levee and Henry’s sultry harmonies consume the summer air.
They’d nailed the emotion of the song, and if I was being honest, it was a perfect fit for their voices. But that wasn’t why my mouth hung open.
I swung my gaze to Bree. “A little birdie?”
She hid her massive grin behind her wine glass. Her long eyelashes batted against her blushing cheeks as she sang, “Chirp. Chirp.”
I stared at her for a long minute, thoroughly perplexed as lyrics about forever and stopping time played in the background. I couldn’t decide if I was impressed, touched, possibly embarrassed, or some wicked combination of the three.
“What did you do?” I whispered.
“What any good friend would. I took a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue, a basket containing roughly two bakery’s worth of treats, and enough Prism bedding to redecorate an entire house up to the radio station today.”
Yep. Totally impressed. “You bribed them?”
“No. I wanted to let my new friends at Q99.3 know that I happened to have insider information on a certain celebrity who currently resides in our great city.”
Wait, nope. Definite embarrassment.
I lurched to my feet, dragging a hand through the top of my hair now that it was finally long enough to rely on it for expelling frustration again. “You told them I’m a celebrity?”
She shrugged. “Well, you are. You wrote a song for the Levee Williams. And Henry Alexander,” she said dreamily before quickly cutting herself off. “And this time next year, it will be your voice on the radio. They better start getting used to your name now. I don’t want to hear any of that Easton crap when you hit it big.”
All right, fine. I was touched. I didn’t exactly share her positivity about my career. Or her surprising fondness for Henry Alexander.
Was he her type?
Never mind.
Anyway, it was crazy sweet how she’d gone out of her way to make sure I was recognized and more than just in the fine print on the back of the album.
I planted my hands on my hips and gaped at her. I was unsure of what to say and even more unsure if I could say anything at all. So, after clearing my throat, I kept it light for both of our sakes.