Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“Shit.” I run my hands over my face and pull out my Dessi Blue music diary.
I lean my elbows on the closed lid of the piano and study my notes for the scene right before Dessi performs my original song “Walk Away.” I want the music bed under that scene to flow seamlessly into Neevah’s performance, but I’m not sure exactly what that transition sounds like yet.
For a moment, I take in the stunning city view, the grand piano, and sleek leather furniture set in the sunken floor, before lifting the lid to play the opening chords of “Walk Away.” The notes echo in the room, suspended and haunting. The hairs on my arms stand at attention, and I play the chords again, hearing something new I hadn’t detected before. Most of my work is digital now, but occasionally I’ll break out paper to write things down. I flip to the back of the music diary, and unfold the paper I used to jot the lyrics when they first came to me. I stare at them until they swim on the page, and my hands tremble with the need to channel all this emotion into the instrument that has been like a close friend since before I understood what friendship was. Even though Neevah and I rehearsed this song for hours, when the sounds, the words, pour out of me, it’s like I’ve never heard them before.
We’ve been through it all, and nothing ever works
We keep on trying, don’t we? Even though it hurts
I’ve always said I’d never give up on you
You ask why I’m still here, why I’ve come ’round again
Guess I got a high tolerance for pain
Even though I’ve always said I’d never give up on you
We could have had it all, but now it’s all gone astray
I thought I’d keep on tryin’, tryin’ till my dying day
My heart’s torn up, my soul’s cashed out and I think it’s time
Tell me, is it time to walk away?
My hands hover over the keys, the vibrato of my heart rattling in my chest. I grab the diary and study the words I wrote in the margins to set the tone of the scene.
Loss. Grief. Abandonment. Heartbreak.
Each of those words feels familiar; like the lyrics, the notes were carved into my heart twelve years ago on one of the worst nights of my life. The night I lost Verity.
When I lost her the first time.
Am I really going to lose her again?
Twelve years I’ve lived not fully trusting my own heart because how could I have gotten it so wrong? We were young, but I knew she was it for me. I recognized that other half of myself in her. Not that we are the same, but that we belong together, beside each other.
Forever.
Now I know the truth of what happened all those years ago, and our future together felt within reach before our argument on Valentine’s Day. I’m older, wiser, stronger, and—Verity said it herself—one stubborn motherfucker. This is one time my hard head will come in handy because I refuse to accept losing Verity at the first sign of trouble. How will I convince her she can trust me to stick around if when we fight, I leave? If she is entering a manic cycle, I should be with her. Not here with damn Cutter.
Fuck this album. Fuck all of it.
I’ve achieved things beyond my wildest dreams, yet always beneath the accolades, the wealth and acclaim, something was missing.
She was missing.
I slam the piano lid down and stride back to my bedroom.
“The fuck you doing here then,” I mutter, wrenching my suitcase out of the closet. I didn’t bring much and barely had time to unpack, but I’m tossing my shit in this bag and will be on the next thing smoking back to LA.
Back to my girl.
She needs me, and I know she worries her diagnosis will be a burden, that one day it will be too much. What she still doesn’t realize is how much I need her, but I’ll make that shit real clear. My mind, derailed by the possibility I sabotaged a second chance with my first love, comes back online little by little. The details to execute this relationship rescue mission form a list in my head.
Book the flight.
Pack.
Call Cutter to cancel our studio time for the rest of the week. He’ll be furious, and I won’t blame him, but youngin’ is lucky I’m helping his wet-behind-the-ears ass. He’ll be alright.
Verity is my priority.
I’m rolling my suitcase into the living room, when the doorbell rings. Weird because our aggressive doorman guards the building’s lobby like he’s Gabriel at heaven’s gates. Only people I’ve preapproved on my list downstairs are allowed up without calling.
I peer through the keyhole and my heart slams against my ribs. I fumble like a newborn trying to get the door open.