32. The dawn of day
THE DAWN OF DAY
P reston found Talia on the back step, cigarette glowing in the dark.
He stopped short. “I thought you quit.”
She didn’t look at him, just exhaled slow. “Yeah. Well… ten million in the hole’ll make anybody start back up.”
He leaned against the railing beside her. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The night carried the sound of traffic somewhere far off, a reminder that the world kept moving whether they were ready or not.
“You like the song?” she asked finally.
“Yeah,” he said. “Tatum’s a dope songwriter. He hears things other people don’t.”
She nodded, flicked ash into the tray. “Your whole life, everything’s been riding on you,” she mused.
That made him look at her.
“I never wanted that for you,” she continued. “I never wanted you to feel like you were carrying all of this. I just…” She shook her head, searching for words. “Music is all I ever knew. It’s how I survived. And now it feels like it’s trying to take from us again.”
He opened his mouth to say something – it’s fine , I got it , don’t worry – but she wasn’t finished.
“I know you can handle the pressure,” she said, finally turning to him. Her eyes were steady, certain. “I know it’s a lot of pressure. But I believe in you. I always have. Just sing like you know how.” She reached up and squeezed his hand once, firm and loving, like a benediction.
Then she stubbed out the cigarette and went back inside.
Preston stayed where he was.
On the surface, he looked calm. Grounded. The version of himself everyone trusted to hold things together. Bu underneath, something weighed on him.
Because he hadn’t sung the song yet. Not really.
He’d hummed through it. Mapped it. Stayed technical with Tatum. Safe. Careful. Like if he didn’t fully step inside it, it couldn’t ask anything of him.
And now his mother’s faith sat on his chest like a weight he didn’t know how to set down.
He closed his eyes.
Just sing like you know how.
He knew how, that wasn’t the problem.
The problem was how much it mattered this time – and how much it would cost if he couldn’t.
Preston stared at his phone longer than he meant to. He wanted to see her face.
Preston: Can we talk?
Delivered.
He waited.
Nothing.
He typed again, deleted it. Set the phone down. Picked it back up.
That was when Mack came in like a gust of wind. “Listen up, we’ve got our shot.” he announced. “I got Sony, Warner Brothers, Universal. Real people, not assistants. They’re willing to take a listen.”
Preston blinked. “When?”
Mack stopped walking and looked at him. “Now.”
“But I?—”
“Now’s not the time for that, Superstar. Now’s the time to deliver.”
That word landed heavy.
“I called in every favor I had left,” Mack continued, voice sharp but controlled. “Every bridge I didn’t burn. If this don’t work, we lose it all. House. Leverage. Everything.”
Preston took a deep breath, the exhaled heavily.
Mack walked closer to him. “Everything you’ve ever done, all you’ve been though –Cameron, the noise – none of it matters now.
Right now, the only thing that matters is the thing that should’ve always been first – singing.
You’re a singer, Preston, and not just a damned good one, a generational talent.
I know that, but right now, I need you to know that.
Go in there and do what you were born to do. ”
Without another word, Mack left and went to check on the band.
His phone buzzed in his hand. He hoped – stupidly – that it was Spring.
It wasn’t.
He typed fast this time, before he could talk himself out of it. I’m going into the studio. Wish we could talk. I’m a little…. Kinda wish you were here.
He hit send.
Still nothing. He waited a bit longer but there was no response.
Suddenly, Mack reappeared. He clapped his hands once. “Band’s already set. Executives are in the other room. Come on, Superstar, let’s show them who you are.”
Two people appeared out of nowhere – someone adjusting his jacket, someone else holding a clipboard. Doors opened. Voices lowered when they saw him.
Preston let Mack guide him down the hall, the studio lights growing brighter with every step.
Inside, the band was tuning up, most of whom he’d worked with before. They were already going over the notes of the song they’d been given before Tatum left.
Behind the glass, suits were already settling in – phones face down, arms crossed, expressions unreadable. They were the people who decided futures in under four minutes.
Preston took his place at the mic. His phone vibrated once in his pocket.
He didn’t look.
The door closed.
The room went quiet.
And just like that, there was no more waiting, only the moment he either stepped into… or lost forever.
It would be the first words he’d sung in over a year.
And his mind betrayed him immediately.
Every failure came rushing back at once: the missed sessions, the half-written verses, the way his voice had locked up in his throat at Cameron’s funeral. The way the room had watched him then. The pressure. The silence. The panic.
It crawled up his spine now.
He was overthinking. He knew he was. And he’d already failed before he’d even opened his mouth.
Man… why the fuck did I agree to this?
“Preston,” his mother said softly. “We’re waiting on you, baby.”
She said it gently, but there was no mistaking what she meant. This was it. He could see the angst in his mother’s face.
If he folded now, everything they’d built collapsed with him. The house. The debt. The sacrifices she never spoke about unless the room was quiet enough to hear the ache underneath them. All because he couldn’t trust himself in the one place he’d lived his whole life.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. As he exhaled, a calmness washed over him.
He felt her before he saw her.
When he opened his eyes, Spring was standing just beyond the glass, close enough to touch. She met his eyes like she always had – steady, grounded, unafraid.
She smiled and lifted a sign. Go, Big Bird!
He smiled as she mouthed, You got this.
Something in his chest loosened.
He smiled back – a schoolboy smile he hadn’t worn in years.
He nodded to the guitarist. The strings came alive.
The beat settled into his body like muscle memory, like home, like the reminder that he’d loved music before it became a burden. It moved through him the way breath used to – natural, necessary.
Executives sat behind the glass, deciding whether he’d owe eight figures in breach penalties… or get a second life doing the only thing he’d ever been good at.
His mother’s expectations hung heavy in the room, bracing for disappointment.
He blocked it all out.
He focused on her , the girl knew, the woman she’d become, and let the first note tear free – beautiful and painful all at once.
Girl, you don’t know how…
Much I want you
You don’t know I’ll
always love you, baby
Can I taste you?
You feel like desire baby
He heard the gasp from behind the glass. It didn’t matter. He kept going.
Can I quench you inside of this fire, baby?
I love your lips…
I hope you know what I mean
I love your hips and
the language that speaks between
He sang from a place he’d forgotten existed, a place untouched by fear or expectation. A place where love was still pure and music still told the truth.
There was no performance, only feeling. And there was no denying everyone in the crowd was feeling something heavy.
When the last note faded, the room stayed silent for a moment.
His chest rose and fell hard, a light sweat clinging to his skin – no warmups, no lung drills, just instinct and nerve.
He looked to the executives. They were trying not to show it – tight smiles, exchanged glances, restrained excitement they couldn’t quite hide.
He looked to Mack to confirm what he already felt in his spirit.
Mack took off shades, looked him firmly in the eyes and nodded once. That spoke louder than he ever did.
Then he looked at his mother.
She was crying, nodding. Proud. The one thing he’d been chasing his whole life.
His throat tightened.
He turned back to Spring – the girl he’d loved, the woman she’d become, his springtime.
Everything aligned.
He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t done. He was back .
Superman was alive.