Chapter 14 #2
“Nice.” Tommy holds up his hand for a high-five. I leave him hanging, which doesn’t seem to bother him at all. “She’s cute. The florist. You should bring her to the firehouse cookout next month.”
“A firehouse cookout?”
“Always.” Josh shrugs. “This town runs on gossip and outdoor grilling. Those are the two food groups.”
I’m about to respond when my phone rings.
Not buzzes. Rings. The actual ringtone I set for emergencies, which Diane has apparently decided this now qualifies as.
“Sorry,” I mutter, stepping toward the garage. “I have to take this.”
The garage is cooler, quieter, the smell of diesel sharper away from the coffee and burned popcorn of the common room. I lean against one of the trucks and answer.
“Diane.”
“Oh good, you remember my name.” Her voice is crisp, professional, and radiating fury. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten, given that you’ve ignored my last fifteen calls.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Busy doing what? Playing beach bum in a town that doesn’t show up on most maps?”
“It shows up on maps. It’s a real place.”
“Levi.” She exhales, and I can picture her pinching the bridge of her nose in her sleek LA office, surrounded by gold records and photos of clients far less difficult than me. “The label meeting is coming up. They’re not going to wait forever.”
“Then they can meet without me.”
“That’s not how this works. You’re the artist. You’re the one they need to see, to talk to, to reassure that you’re not having some kind of breakdown in—where are you again?”
“Twin Waves.”
“Twin Waves. Which is in?”
“North Carolina.”
“North Carolina.” She says it like I’ve announced I’m living in a cave. “Right. Well, here’s the thing. I’m not doing this over the phone anymore. We’re having this conversation face-to-face.”
A cold feeling settles in my stomach. “What does that mean?”
The clacking of a keyboard sounds in the background. “It means I’m on my way there. My flight lands at three.”
“Diane—”
“See you soon, Levi.”
She hangs up.
I stare at the screen for a long moment, then walk back into the common room where Dean and the guys are debating the best way to cook ribs.
“You look like someone just told you Christmas is canceled,” Josh observes.
“My manager is coming here.”
“Here?” Dean frowns. “To Twin Waves?”
“To Twin Waves. Today.”
“Is that…bad?”
I think about Diane, with her designer suits and her LA efficiency, descending on this tiny coastal town like a well-dressed tornado. The meeting I’ve been avoiding. The career I’ve been putting on hold. The conversation I’m not ready to have.
“It’s not great,” I say.
Tommy claps me on the shoulder. “Well, if you need to hide, my basement is available. It’s mostly storage, but there’s a futon.”
“Thanks, Tommy.”
“Also, could you sign my truck? It’s not for me. It’s for…the truck.”
Dean grabs my arm and steers me toward the door. “We’re leaving. Right now.”
Diane’s rental car is already parked in my driveway when I get home.
It’s a shiny black Mercedes—the nicest car this driveway has probably ever seen—and Diane is standing beside it, studying my rental house like it might contain structural deficiencies.
Her heels are sinking into the gravel and her silk blouse is slightly wilted in the coastal humidity.
She looks profoundly out of place, like a peacock that accidentally wandered into a chicken coop.
“Levi.” She doesn’t smile. Diane never really does—she offers expressions that suggest she might consider it if you impress her enough. “You’re late.”
“You’re early. Your flight wasn’t supposed to land until three.”
“I took an earlier one. I was motivated.” She extracts one heel from the gravel with a grimace. “Please tell me there’s somewhere civilized we can talk.”
“There’s a porch. It has rocking chairs.”
She stares at the rocking chairs like they’ve personally offended her.
We go inside instead, to the kitchen with its marble counters and copper fixtures, where Diane perches on a bar stool and I start a pot of coffee I don’t want just to have something to do with my hands.
“So,” she says. “Let’s discuss what’s happening here.”
“I’m taking some time off. That’s what’s happening.”
“You’re hiding.” She pulls a tablet from her bag and starts scrolling. “The label is getting nervous. Your last album went platinum, which means they want another one. Preferably before the public forgets you exist.”
“I’ve been gone three months.”
“In this industry, that’s a lifetime. You know that.” She sets down the tablet. “There’s a meeting on Friday. New album timeline, potential tour dates, some sponsorship opportunities that are frankly too lucrative to ignore. You need to be there.”
“I’m working on new material.”
“Here?”
“Yes, here.” I pour a cup I don’t want, just to avoid looking at her. “I’ve written more in the past two weeks than I have in the past year. Twin Waves is good for me.”
“Is Twin Waves good for you, or is the woman good for you?”
I go still. “Who told you about—”
“Please. I’ve been your manager for eight years. I know when someone’s involved.” Diane’s voice softens. “I also know that last time, you wrote Distance, which made us both a lot of money. So I’m not unsympathetic.”
“Then let me stay.”
“It’s not that simple. They—”
“Can wait.”
“Levi.” She stands, crossing to the window, looking out at the ocean view she’s so thoroughly unimpressed by. “I’m going to be honest with you. The label is considering other options. You’re not the only artist on their roster, and you’ve been…difficult lately.”
“Difficult how?”
“Refusing meetings, ignoring calls, disappearing to a town called—” She glances at her phone. “Twin Waves, which I had to Google three times to find.”
“It’s not that small.”
“The airport didn’t have a Starbucks.”
“That’s not a measure of civilization.”
“It’s a measure of something.” She turns back to me.
“Here’s the deal. You come to the meeting on Friday.
You sit in a room with some executives. You smile, you nod, you tell them you’re working on new material and you’re excited about the future.
Two hours, maybe three. Then you can come back here and continue… whatever this is.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then they start having conversations without you—about timelines, contractual obligations.” She pauses. “About whether you’re still the artist they want to invest in.”
The coffee maker beeps. I pour two cups, hand her one, and lean against the counter.
“I’m not leaving her again,” I say quietly.
Diane’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m not asking you to leave her. I’m asking you to take a meeting. One day. Maybe two. Then you return.”
“The last time I went, everything fell apart.”
“The last time you left, you were grieving your father and in love with someone who wasn’t ready.” She sips her coffee. “Are you sure she’s ready now?”
The question lands harder than I want it to.
Am I sure? Delilah said she was done running. She promised. But last night at dinner, when I told her about the meeting, she said “you should go” with an expression I couldn’t read. And then Penelope showed up with her poison comments, and something in Delilah’s eyes shuttered closed.
“She’s ready,” I say.
Diane doesn’t look convinced. But she nods, sets down her coffee cup, and picks up her bag.
“Friday. I’ll send you the flight details.” She pauses at the door. “And Levi? Maybe talk to her about this before you decide. It might go better than you think.”
She leaves.
I stand in my beautiful kitchen, cup getting cold in my hand, and wonder if she’s right.
I find Delilah at Petals & Promises at closing time.
The evening light is slanting through the windows, turning everything golden—the buckets of flowers, the vintage cash register, the woman behind the counter wrapping stems in brown paper with the practiced efficiency of someone who’s done it a thousand times.
She looks up when the bell chimes. Her smile is immediate, warm, and something tight in my chest loosens just at the sight of it.
“Hey, you.”
“Hey.”
I cross the shop, stepping around buckets of roses and baskets of greenery, until I’m close enough to pull her into my arms. She comes easily, wrapping her arms around my waist, her cheek pressed against my chest.
“You smell like flowers,” I say.
“Occupational hazard.” She pulls back, studying my face. “You look…stressed. What happened?”
“My manager showed up.”
“Here? In Twin Waves?”
“In my driveway. Wearing designer heels. She was not pleased.”
Delilah’s lips twitch. “I bet.”
I take her hand and lead her to the worn velvet settee in the corner—the one Eleanor keeps for brides having emotional moments during consultations. We sit, and I tell her about Diane, the meeting, the label’s pressure, and the choice I don’t want to make.
She listens without interrupting. When I finish, she’s silent for a moment.
“You should go,” she says.
There it is. The same words from last night, landing like a stone in my stomach.
“Delilah—”
“I mean it.” She squeezes my hand. “It’s one meeting. A couple days. You can’t put your whole career on pause because of me.”
“I’m not putting it on pause because of you. I’m—”
“Yes, you are.” Her voice is gentle but firm. “And I don’t want to be the reason you lose everything you’ve built.”
I stare at her, trying to read what’s behind the words. Is she pushing me away? Is this the beginning of another disappearing act?
“If I go,” I say carefully, “I’m coming back.”
“I know.”
“I mean it. Two days. Three at most. Then I’m back.”
“Levi.” She touches my face. “I heard you.”
“And you’ll be here? When I return?”
Something flickers across her face. Pain, maybe. Or fear.
“I will,” she says.
I want to believe her, to trust that this time is different, that she’s not going to vanish while I’m gone, that I won’t come back to an empty flower shop and a forwarding address.
But the doubt is there, curled up in the corner of my mind, whispering.
She left before. She’ll leave again.
I push it down and kiss her forehead, then her lips, then pull her close and hold on.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll go. But I’m calling you every day.”
“That often?”
“Twice a day.”
“That seems excessive.”
“Three times.”
She laughs, and the sound eases the tension in me. “Fine. Call me however many times you want.”
“I will.” I tip her chin up, looking into her eyes. “And Delilah? Don’t run.”
She flinches, just slightly. But she holds my gaze.
“I’m not running,” she says. “I meant what I said.”
I nod and kiss her again.
And I try not to notice how much it feels like goodbye.