Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
I’m mid-chorus when the track cuts off. Silence settles heavy in my headphones, and my foot bounces against the wooden rung of the stool. Waiting. Again.
This is how it goes. Six takes. Eight. Sometimes twelve. And Boone’s words, always the same: “Come on out.”
And there it is.
This time, it’s take five, and his tone says none of them worked.
With a groan, I prop my guitar against the foam walls of the sound booth, step out, and drop into a rolling chair in front of the boards.
He swivels in my direction. “What’s going on with you today?”
Oh, not much. Just unraveling. Apparently not so quietly.
Trying to sing a song you wrote while my brain contributed one pathetic line. One.
Trying to act like I know what I’m doing, but feeling so far over my head that I’m gasping for air.
“I guess I’m just having a bad day.”
My throat is raw from singing the same lines over and over, fingers aching from gripping the guitar too tight. There’s a headache building behind my eyes. It’s barely past noon, and I’m already exhausted.
Boone’s eyes narrow. “We only have five months left to write and record an entire album.”
I swallow. I know this.
“And I don’t have any wiggle room,” he continues. “I’ve got someone booked in right after you. June 15th, and we’re done.”
The date puts a pit in my stomach.
“You really don’t do breaks, do you?” I mumble.
“Listen. I don’t give a shit about your personal life; I care about this record. I care about putting my name on something I’m proud of.” He pauses. “You should, too.”
I nod.
“So, what’s it going to take to get you there?”
If I knew, wouldn’t I have been doing that? He acts as if this is fun for me. As if I enjoy wasting his time. And my own, for that matter.
“I don’t know.” I pick at loose threads around a rip in my jeans.
Every day since Kendra called with this incredible opportunity, I’ve been running the same mental loop: work harder, want it more, don’t waste it. I can scribble down ideas and lyrics all day, but turning them into something? The second that mic clicks on? It’s gone. I’ve got nothing.
I’ve never had stage fright in my life, but I imagine this is what it’s like. Everyone’s watching, and I just… freeze.
“No one’s immune to pressure. We all feel it.” He taps a finger on the arm of his chair. “You know why people don’t make it? Not lack of talent.”
I go to say something, but he barrels on, “How many great artists have you watched grind it out in Nashville?
“More than I can count,” I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest.
“You know what the real stars have?”
“What?”
“Grit. They don’t just survive pressure.” He leans forward. “They use it.”
For a man who largely avoids eye contact, his attention pins me in place.
“Like a diamond,” I say under my breath.
“Exactly.” Boone nods once. “So, are you going to become a diamond, or are you gonna stay graphite?”
I fight back a smile, but I don’t think I succeed. “Graphite doesn’t sound nearly as appealing.”
“So be a fucking diamond.”
He’s not asking if I can handle pressure. He’s asking if I’m willing to let it change me. Break me down until something better forms.
The question is: am I?
“Any tips on how I can do that?” I give him my best smile now. This is the most I’ve gotten him to talk since we’ve been working together, and I’m not wasting it.
He tosses his hat off, and it lands with a thump on the sound boards. “What’s your favorite song?”
I may have never fallen in love with a man, but songs? Too many to count. “Jolene, Sleeping on My Side, Cowboys Cry Too, You Should Probably Leave, Before He Cheats—Oh, Hurricane—”
“What do you think they’ve all got in common?” he cuts me off.
“You produced some of them—”
He huffs a laugh. “Sucking up isn’t what those artists have in common.”
“They…” I start, suddenly eight years old again and waiting to be wrong in front of the class.
He takes pity on me. “They make you feel something, don’t they?”
I hum in agreement, leaning back, the chair dipping with my movement.
“You know where that starts?” He rests his forearms on the arms of his chair, looking bigger and more confident than he usually does. “With the artist feeling it first. Feeling something they gotta let out.”
He taps his fingers to his chest. “The thing that’s hard to share. The thing that costs you something to say out loud.”
Well, damn.
I catch my bottom lip between my teeth.
“What aren’t you letting out, Summer Starling?”
My lip pops free.
What am I not letting out?
Try everything.
Fear, disappointment, failure.
That I’m wasting my one shot. That the girl who sang covers in dive bars for tip money doesn’t actually have what it takes to make it.
That wanting Miles will distract me. Take my focus away from my music.
The way he held me when I came home crying, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. The way he looked at me on that frozen pond and said he liked seeing me happy. How he shows up for me in all the little ways. Every day.
The fact that I’m counting each one. 136 left. I’m both desperate for time to slow down and terrified it won’t matter anyway.
But what if Boone’s right? What if good art requires feeling everything?
What if the thing holding me back isn’t lack of talent or timing or the perfect execution, but that I keep flinching away from the very thing I need to lean into?
Maybe the only way through is straight at it.
Even if that’s terrifying. Even if I’m not sure I’ll survive it.
“You taking the afternoon off, or are you getting back to work?” Boone’s voice cuts through.
“Let’s get back to work,” I say, because, despite every instinct telling me to keep it all locked up, I didn’t come this far to quit at the last hurdle.
“You gonna feel something and let it out?” he challenges.
“I sure as heck hope so.”
It comes out too honest to hide behind a smile.
What aren’t you letting out?
Boone’s words continue to ring in my ears all afternoon and into my drive to Mia’s place.
The session after our talk went differently. I stopped trying to control every note and let the rawness in. Stopped hiding behind technique and just… felt it. Boone still didn’t smile—I’m not sure the man knows how—but when I finished the last take, he said, “That’s it. That’s the one.”
Hours of hell for four words of praise. I’ll take it.
The problem is, now I’m drained. And I have to do it again tomorrow. And the day after that. Until we have enough songs for an entire album.
I sit in my truck outside Mia’s brownstone for a full five minutes before I make myself move.
Every nerve in my body is screaming to go home, curl up in bed, regroup in private, the way I always have. But I promised Mia I’d come tonight. And maybe… maybe this’ll be good. Maybe I don’t want to process everything alone anymore.
And Miles isn’t home. Which is why the girls are getting together to watch their away game.
I kill the engine, slam the door, and hurry up the steps. After ringing the bell, I stomp my boots on the mat, knocking off a dusting of snow.
Mia pulls open the door, her cheeks flushed pink.
“You’ve had wine, haven’t you?” I tease. She’s never been a big drinker, but since dating Dominic and learning his reasons for not drinking, she usually skips it. Tonight must be an exception.
“I’m such a lightweight.” She giggles, but her eyes stay on me, searching. Her smile falters. “Hey. You okay?”
“I’m fine.” I force brightness into my voice.
“Oh, no, not the ‘f’ word.”
“C’mon.” I step inside before she can push it further.
She doesn’t look convinced, but she takes my coat and hangs it in the closet. “Everyone’s in here. Let me introduce you.”
I follow her through the house and into the kitchen.
Hannah, who I recognize from her visit to the show with Ryan, stands with a woman who could be Emmy Rossum’s twin—if Emmy had the kind of curves I would sell a kidney for.
A boy, maybe ten, tugs on her elbow. And perched on a stool across from them is a woman with red hair so bright it makes my auburn look dull by comparison.
“You’ve met Hannah, my brother’s girlfriend—” Mia starts, but Hannah cuts her off, holding up her left hand. The vintage diamond glints as she grins. “Fiancée,” she corrects.
“It’s so good to see you again,” Hannah greets me with a hug. “Glad you could make it. I hear you’ve been held prisoner.”
I roll my eyes before I can stop myself, and laugh. “That’s pretty accurate. Although technically, I self-committed to the sentence.”
“And this is Natalie,” Mia continues, gesturing to the redhead.
Natalie pulls me into a hug and whispers, “Welcome to the madhouse.”
“And this is Ada and her son, Owen,” Mia makes the last of the introductions.
“Say hello,” Ada prompts her son.
“Uh, hi,” the kid says, brushing a mop of blond hair from his face before turning back to his mom with a huff. “Can I, Mom?”
“Yeah, go on,” Ada agrees, and Owen darts out of the room in a blur. “Sorry about that. I swear, I’m raising a gentleman.” She holds up a bottle of white wine. “Drink?”
“Yes, please.”
Owen tears past us again, this time bundled up in full winter gear, a cute mutt hot on his heels.
“That’s Freddie,” Hannah says. “He and Owen are best friends.”
Ada smirks. “Mine’s had way too much sugar. What’s your excuse, Han?”
“He’s fueled by love and attention.” Hannah laughs. “We’ve got that in common.”
“Owen’s got good energy,” I tell Ada as they dart out the back door, cold air rushing in their wake. “Reminds me of my little brother at that age.”
“Your brother?” Mia raises a brow. “I find it hard to believe you weren’t chaos in cowboy boots as a kid.”
“Oh, I like that.” I grin, pulling out my notepad. “Could be a song.”
Ada hands me a glass of wine, and I take a sip.
“So, tell us about the album.” Hannah settles onto one of the barstools. “Miles mentioned you’ve been working nonstop.”
“He did?” I take another sip to hide the heat creeping up my cheeks.