Next Chapter of Us

1. Effie

ONE

EFFIE

Effie Bird squinted through her tortoise-shell sunglasses, peering at the Main Street storefronts. The air conditioning in her luxury car ruffled her curtain bangs as she settled against the driver’s seat.

“Hmph.”

Too grumpy to be charmed by the town, she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel in a random rhythm, her white skin stark against the warm brown leather interior. Then, as if the leather had suddenly burnt her, she released the wheel and curled her fingers into her palm.

“Jewel, Michigan,” she said to the empty car.

A small town nestled in a sheltered bay of Lake Michigan where Effie would spend the rest of the dog days of summer. Suddenly, her plan didn’t feel so foolproof. Maybe this waterfront community in northern Michigan wasn’t the best place for one of the biggest pop singers in the game to “take a break.”

She sighed, uncertainty needling through her skin. Her intuition had gotten her this far in her music career. By all metrics, Effie had survived and thrived longer than any thirty-seven-year-old woman should. Over twenty years and twelve albums, Effie had written the lyrics and the melodies, the hooks and the bridges. She booked the tours, sold out stadiums across the world, commanded the crowds, and now she was just fucking exhausted.

Pulling open the car’s visor, she plucked her rectangular Stella McCartney sunglasses off her nose. The big, black Escalade carrying her security detail and luggage reflected in the mirror as she inspected the dark circles under her eyes.

Jesus, and the crow’s feet she swore weren’t there before her last tour.

Despite the countless high-end Korean moisturizers she slathered on and laser resurfacing treatments she suffered, they were there. Taunting her. She thought of the deep laugh lines and wrinkles of her manager, her powerhouse of a mother. Apparently, even the best treatments in the world couldn’t combat genetics. Effie had vowed when she was younger that she didn’t want to overdo the plastic surgery forced upon most celebrities, intending to age with a somewhat normal looking face. But the wingy, little lines flaring out from the corners of her eyes?

“Assholes,” she grumbled at her reflection before flipping the visor up with, admittedly, too much force.

Just as she was about to get up the courage to drive to her destination, her phone rang. The ringtone clanged over the Bluetooth speaker making her jump before she slammed the button to answer.

“Effie.” Her name chirped from the speaker before she could even say hello. She scrunched her lips at her producer’s sweet-talking tone.

“Shay,” she responded flatly. Even halfway across the country, her producer turned best friend would sense her distress and call right at this exact moment.

“Oh, come on now.”

“Don’t oh, come on now me.” Effie inspected her cuticles as she spoke.

“I thought you might need a pep talk,” he said. “Let me guess: you’re sitting in your chartered luxury vehicle?—”

“It’s an Aston Martin.”

“—windows down, inspecting the hairs you need to pluck out of your mustache,” he finished, unperturbed.

“Fuck off, I don’t have a mustache.” She crossed her arms. “And I have the air on and was bemoaning my crow’s feet.”

Shay tutted. “Babe.”

“Don’t babe me either… I don’t even know why you’re not here with me.”

“You know why I’m not there. As much as I love you, I produce music for other artists and their schedules don’t run around Miss Effie Bird’s.”

Effie pouted.

“Don’t pout,” he said, as if he could see her.

Her frown deepened. “How can you annoy me even though you’re still in New York and I’m…in Michigan?” She was getting suspiciously close to whining.

“Ef.” A door opened and closed; she pictured him leaving the studio for some actual privacy. “You wanted a break to write new stuff, yes? Or would you rather fly back to New York and cobble together an album from shit we ditched on the cutting-room floor?” He paused. “Be honest.”

She frowned, side-eyeing the picture-perfect Main Street again. It dead-ended at a sandy beach that begged for Effie’s toes to dig in.

Shay remained the only person in her inner circle whose input she respected regarding her career. Everyone else—her parental management unit, her publicist, and the people at her label—listened to her . Whatever she wanted, they did.

Yet her songs still topped the pop charts. When she thought her career would peter out after thirty, her career felt like some fluke, one big twist of fate.

Which, obviously, wasn’t true. It was thanks to her parents’ hustle when she was just a na?ve, electric-blue-eyed fifteen-year-old. They shepherded her through the industry with her acoustic guitar, laptop demos, and some wild dreams. Her industry-famous work ethic grew out of those years, and she toiled for the last twenty years to ensure that her career flourished.

But something had changed, and she trusted Shay Blue and his ever-annoying, devil-advocating ways to help get her back on track.

“We both know you haven’t been writing,” he said, more softly. “Not even a single bridge—and I know how you love a bridge, babe.”

Effie’s insides literally shriveled. Shay always had the balls to call her out, and she knew he was painfully right. As much as she struggled to admit, her younger years were more energetic. She could bounce from show to studio without batting a perfectly lined eye. Since the last tour, the spark wasn’t there.

Effie didn’t believe that creative wells could dry up, but she was certainly experiencing a low water table.

She took a deep breath and set her jaw, still staring straight ahead.

“Ef?” Shay’s voice crackled on the other line. “You got this, okay? You’ve got Brett’s address. He’s expecting you. Just relax. He’ll take care of you—he knows how it is. Let your mind wander. I know this could be epic for you.”

“Yes,” she sighed, resting her forehead in her hand.

Brett Blue. Retired, notoriously private bassist of 90s grunge band Hoax turned producer. Half-brother to Shay, Effie still wasn’t sure how her friend convinced Brett to host her at his Nightowl Studios for a while. His personal oasis in the woods where his production career blossomed.

“You’re right, you’re right,” she said. Though the thought of middle-aged Brett Blue made her shiver. “I know I need to write and I haven’t been able to get anything done in the city. Why I’m being so resistant?”

“Because you’re like a feral cat. A feral cat adorned in bejeweled bodysuits and leather jackets.”

She snorted a soft laugh through her nose. He had a point. Despite her self-professed need for this writing hiatus, she got antsy while being in one place for too long—physically and mentally. An outdoor cat trapped indoors.

But maybe it was also the history between Effie and Brett that made her nervous. As much as she tried to bury those memories, they wouldn’t die.

“Listen, I gotta go. But voice memo me whenever, okay?” Shay said, before whispering to someone else on the other end.

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

And the line went dead.

She idled for another couple minutes in her sports car before rolling down her window.

Over the soft purr of the motor, waves crashed onto the beach. She squinted around, taking in the downtown. There wasn’t much here which, she thought, was part of the appeal. These northern towns could get overrun with tourists, but she found it hard to imagine Jewel’s quaint downtown packed with vacationers.

Yes, there was the beach around the corner, but other than that, there was Two Bird (a dive bar, as far as Effie could tell), a bank, Bad Rose Luncheonette, The Nightingale Grill Effie knew just a couple inches higher on the inside of his left leg was a phoenix tattoo commemorating his older brother.

Effie frowned at the memory of its shape, hampering his otherwise friendly greeting. She really didn’t want to think about how good Brett looked, about their history, but she couldn’t freaking help it.

Neither of them moved. Maybe this was a bad idea after all.

“Did I say something?” he asked, breaking the awkward silence between them.

Immediately Effie wanted to wrap up in his voice, exactly as deep and rich as she remembered it. She shook her head to clear it, her curtain bangs and fresh blowout swinging. “No, just…it’s good to see you.”

That was a lie. It wasn’t good, it was confusing as hell.

But Effie smiled, her porcelain veneers clicking. She had them for a couple years now, since before the start of her last world tour, but she still wasn’t quite used to them.

After too long standing silently in the doorway, Brett finally seemed to remember where they were and stepped backward. “God, come in, sorry.”

Effie bent to pick up the bottle of wine, her opal and sapphire ring glinting in the Michigan summer sun. In a demented version of the bend and snap, she popped back up, catching the quick glance Brett did at her chest.

Still got it .

Yeah, one of the biggest popstars in the world still had mixed up body confidence issues, just like any other woman. Worse now that she was thirty-seven and most of her industry peers were ten to fifteen years her junior.

Stepping into the foyer, she looked around. The cabin was cute and cozy.

“I wouldn’t have expected a grunge rocker to own so many crocheted blankets,” Effie said as she dropped her bags inside the entryway.

Brett chuckled. “Well, my mom crochets, so I end up with most of them.”

My mom crochets . She caught herself smiling at the thought of his mother, a retired singer-songwriter herself, crocheting dozens of blankets. He smiled right back.

Shit . This fifty-year-old man shouldn’t send her pulse skittering. Why did he have to be so damn attractive? His natural, rugged handsomeness had sparked her attraction years ago. If Effie was going to survive the next weeks unscathed, she needed to stop thinking about his striking good looks immediately.

She reached out the bottle of wine to Brett. Though he said nothing, his raised eyebrows meant he recognized it.

He damn well better. They shared a case of the stuff in Cannes eight years ago after Hoax’s documentary premiered at the film festival.

“You must be exhausted,” Brett said, running a hand through his hair.

He reached for her bag, his knuckles tightening around the double handle. She shrugged it from her shoulder and tried not to be charmed by this mini display of chivalry.

“Let’s head out to the studio. You can relax, unpack, and I’ll prepare supper in the kitchen out there.”

Supper . God, her heart clenched. “Small town living suits you, Blue.”

“I wasn’t made for the spotlight, Bird. Took me too many years to learn that lesson.”

She couldn’t explain it, but the way he said Bird felt more like a term of endearment than her stage name.

Brett gave her an abbreviated tour on the way out of the main cabin, pointing out the office with a small writing desk, a reading nook, and the sauna on the back porch.

They traipsed through his forested backyard, weaving on the pebbled path between the birch trees to the Scandi-modern style barn. The afternoon sun dappled through the high branches and Effie took a deep breath.

Oh, she could get used to this. The thought surprised her. For years, she’d been based in New York City, thriving in the chaotic neighborhoods and noise that never seemed to stop.

But this was stillness.

She smiled up toward the leafy canopy above, pausing as Brett slid open the door to the studio. Nightowl Studios. She felt his gaze on her. When she met his eyes, he reflected her soft smile.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Always.”

Inside the main room was a musician’s playground. But instead of stopping, he led her through and into the living room side, which boasted an airy kitchen furnished with jewel green cupboards and white subway tile backsplash.

“Seriously, help yourself to anything that’s here. You don’t have to stay in Nightowl the whole time—though some artists prefer to never leave. Let me know if you use the last of something and I’ll make sure it’s replaced. If you have any requests, there’s a notepad on the fridge. Jot it down and I’ll see it’s brought in,” Brett said, pulling open one of the massive sliding glass doors and leaning on the damn doorframe again. “Unless you want beluga caviar: not sure that’s worth flying into Jewel.”

He said it so casually, as if the mere suggestion wasn’t swathed in innuendo. As if they hadn’t shared a tin of it, naked in her hotel bed with a bottle of Cristal, as the sun rose the morning after she won her eighth, ninth, and tenth Grammy in one night.

She sniffed, ignoring the strange swirling in her gut. “I don’t eat that anymore. Don’t you know those poor fish are terribly endangered?”

Brett laughed, a sound that implied he could see right through her and knew exactly what she was really thinking about.

“Upstairs you’ll find the living quarters.” He pointed to a set of stairs that curved out of sight. “Pick whatever room you want. Take your time to refresh. I’ll have food ready when you are.”

Effie nodded, smiled, and took back her bag, the weight comforting in her hand after these first few disorienting minutes in Brett’s presence.

Upstairs and away from him, she took a deep breath, once again able to breathe. The bedrooms mirrored the Scandinavian-light design of the downstairs, and she picked the one with the most pink accents for her stay.

Dropping her luggage onto the ground, she fell back into the bed with an exaggerated sigh.

If anything goes wrong, I’m going to kill Shay, she thought as she buried her head in a downy pillow, trying to rid herself of the dangerous memories threatening to flood her nervous system.