Chapter Thirty-Five
Cooper
Liam’s office smells like expensive imported coffee and that cologne he wears that I can’t even pronounce. The spring LA sun gleams through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, the skyline sparkling off in the distance.
I can barely control myself as I listen to him from across his desk, his lips moving, but I’m not listening at all.
New Artist of the Year.
It’s not even the award; it’s only a nomination, but holy shit. That alone is unreal. My first single’s barely had time to settle, and already, people are saying my name like it belongs in the same sentence as artists I grew up listening to.
Liam leans back in his oversized leather chair, hands folded behind his head, watching me with a satisfied smirk.
“This,” he says, nodding toward me, “is what happens when talent meets the right guidance.”
My smile grows. Damn, it feels good to hear that, to actually feel like there’s a reason this is happening so fast, and I didn’t just get lucky.
“You keep listening to me, and the AMAs is only the beginning. Next, it will be the Grammys, headline tours, people dying to collaborate with you.” He leans forward, eyes sharp, assessing. “Most kids flame out after one song. That won’t be you.”
My chest tightens, excitement and fear tangling together.
“Go,” he says, holding his arms wide. “Go celebrate. We’ll talk next steps tomorrow.”
I barely remember the walk out of his office to the elevator banks, my phone already in my hand by the time the doors slide shut. Pulling up Declan’s message thread, my thumbs fly over the screen, trembling with the adrenaline coursing through my blood.
“You will not believe—”
The message doesn’t get finished as a new text pops up.
Declan
Did something stupid. Lifted a box wrong at work and now the knee’s pissed. Back on the pain meds again. Honestly, at this point, it feels like a joke.
His message hangs heavy as I descend to the ground floor.
My pulse slows, the office, the nomination, the buzz…
all of it dims as I read it again. Closing my eyes, I picture him at home, leg propped up, frustration leaking through his pores as he tries not to show how badly it hurts.
He’s only twenty-two and still dealing with shit his body shouldn’t have to.
My thumb hits delete, each letter disappearing as a new knot takes the place of my excitement. How do I tell him about the AMAs when he’s going through this? How do I talk about red carpets and designer suits when he’s counting pills and ice packs?
“Not now,” I whisper to myself as the elevator dings open. “Later.”
Walking out, I type something new.
Me
Shit, that sucks. Are you okay? Do you need anything?
Three dots appear, then disappear.
Declan
Nah… I’ll be fine.
Guilt settles in my chest alongside the high of the AMAs, the emotion feeling sour and unwanted now.
I did the right thing by not telling him, right? Today is not the moment. Another time. When his knee isn’t acting up, when he doesn’t sound tired and deflated. When my good news won’t feel like a reminder of everything that stalled for him.
There will be time.