Chapter 21
LARK
The plane touches down at LAX with a jolt, and I look out the window at the California sun beating down on the tarmac like it’s personally angry at everyone. Los Angeles. I’m actually in Los Angeles because a record label flew me out.
The thought keeps circling back, equal parts thrilling and terrifying.
“You’re quiet,” Jack says beside me, and I realize I’ve been staring out the window without actually seeing anything for the past few minutes, just watching the ground crew move around in their bright orange vests.
“Just processing,” I say, finally tearing my gaze away from the tarmac to look at him. “This still feels surreal. Like I’m going to wake up any second.”
“It’s real.” He squeezes my hand, his thumb rubbing slow circles on my palm in that way that somehow always calms me down. “And you’re going to be incredible.”
“We’ll see about that,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Big fancy label meetings with people who actually know what they’re doing. It’s new to me.”
“You know what you’re doing,” he says firmly. “They reached out to you, remember? They want you.”
“True,” I admit, feeling some of the tension in my shoulders ease slightly. “That’s a good point.”
“Plus you’ve got me as your cheerleader,” he adds with his trademark cocky grin. “My presence alone guarantees success.”
“Oh, is that how it works?” I laugh despite my nerves. “Your ego is showing, Midnight.”
“Confidence, not ego,” he corrects, still grinning. “There’s a difference. And I have complete faith in you, which you should too.”
The plane finally reaches the gate and everyone immediately stands up even though we’re clearly not going anywhere for another five minutes. Jack doesn’t move from his seat, so neither do I, and I’m grateful for the extra minute to just sit here and breathe.
“Ready?” Jack asks when people finally start moving down the aisle.
“As I’ll ever be,” I say, taking one more deep breath.
He grabs our bags from the overhead compartment with easy strength and we file down the aisle with everyone else, shuffling slowly toward the exit.
LAX is exactly how I remember it from childhood—massive, overwhelming, full of people who all seem to know exactly where they’re going.
My parents were both born in Southern California, and we used to come down every couple of years to visit family.
Dad’s aunt in Pasadena who had approximately ten cats and opinions about everything.
My grandparents in Orange County whose entire extended family would somehow materialize for Sunday dinners that turned into hours of talking and laughing while I fell asleep on the couch.
But even back then, driving past all the billboards and seeing the Hollywood sign in the distance, I remember hoping someday I’d come back here for music.
To play at actual venues like the Troubadour or the Roxy, to meet with labels, to make something of the songs I was writing in my bedroom.
It seemed impossible then, a fantasy that belonged to other people, not to a ten-year-old from Dark River who was still figuring out basic guitar chords.
And now I’m here. Because Tidal Records thinks I might be worth investing in.
We collect our bags from the carousel—mine is bright turquoise and impossible to miss, which was the entire point when I bought it—and head outside into the Southern California heat.
It hits me immediately, that dry warmth that’s so different from Miami, so different from the damp Pacific Northwest air I’m used to.
The sky is this perfect cloudless blue that feels aggressively cheerful, like it’s personally invested in my success here. Palm trees everywhere, that hazy sunshine that makes everything look slightly filtered.
There’s a black SUV waiting with a driver holding a sign that says “Reyes,” which still feels completely surreal. Like I’m in a movie about someone else’s life.
“Ms. Reyes?” the driver confirms.
“That’s me,” I say, trying to sound like someone who has drivers waiting for them all the time and not like someone whose usual transportation involves a fifteen-year-old Honda Civic with a broken air conditioner.
He loads our bags and we’re on the freeway heading toward West Hollywood, and I’m watching the city slide past the windows like a highlight reel of everything that makes LA simultaneously fascinating and overwhelming.
Billboards advertising movies I haven’t seen, albums I haven’t heard. Endless lanes of traffic even though it’s early afternoon. Palm trees lining every street like they’re required by city ordinance.
“Oh, look that’s Pink’s,” I say, pointing at the iconic hot dog stand as we pass. “My aunt on my dad’s side refused to take us because she said it was ‘tourist trap nonsense,’ but I really wanted to go because I loved the name. So one time my mom snuck us there.”
“Rebels,” Jack says, grinning at me.
“Right? We felt so dangerous.” I laugh, remembering it.
“Eating chili dogs in a parking lot like criminals. I think she hated them, but I loved it. I got chili all over my shirt and we had to stop at a gas station to clean me up before we went back. Pretty sure my aunt knew but never said anything.”
“Your family sounds fun,” he says.
“They’re chaotic. Maybe you’ll see them at Christmas.” The words are out before I fully process them, and then my brain catches up. Christmas. With my family. That’s months away and also a very couple-y thing to say and maybe too soon to be casually throwing out there like it’s a given.
But Jack just squeezes my hand. “I’d love that.”
He’s not freaked out. He’s not backpedaling or making a joke to deflect.
“Fair warning though,” I say, trying to sound normal and not like I’m already imagining him at my family’s table, “my abuela will try to feed you until you can’t move.”
He laughs, and I love that sound. “Even better. I’m extremely motivated by food.”
We keep talking as the car weaves through traffic, and I can’t stop pointing at things out the window. The taco place my dad still talks about. The corner where we got hopelessly lost trying to find the beach. That weird statue I thought was haunted when I was seven.
Jack listens to all of it, grinning, asking questions, telling me about the time he got mobbed at an In-N-Out and had to be escorted out by security without even getting his burger. Somewhere between the stories and the familiar streets passing by, the knot in my chest loosens.
When we pull up to the hotel, the driver gets our bags and I take a deep breath.
West Hollywood. I’m in West Hollywood for meetings with a record label.
It’s a gorgeous boutique place called The Redbury that looks like someone with an unlimited budget and very strong opinions about design brought their Pinterest board to life.
It’s the kind of place where you instinctively lower your voice when you walk in because it feels too nice for normal conversation volume.
Check-in is smooth because Tidal already handled everything.
The front desk person is friendly in that way that makes you feel both welcome and acutely aware that you’re probably not their usual clientele.
Then we’re heading up to our room, and I’m trying not to visibly gawk at how nice everything is. The elevator has mirrors and mood lighting. The hallway has actual art on the walls, not just generic hotel prints.
Jack opens the door to our room and I stop in my tracks.
There’s floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and the room looks like it belongs in an interior design magazine. There’s a bottle of champagne on ice with a handwritten note from Maya: Looking forward to our meeting tomorrow.
“Holy shit,” I breathe, walking over to the windows.
The view is insane. You can see all the way to the Hollywood sign from here, those big white letters perched up in the hills like they’re surveying their kingdom.
The city sprawls out below us, buildings and palm trees and hazy sunshine that makes everything look like a movie set.
“This is what they give artists they’re interested in?” I ask, turning to look at Jack who’s set down our bags and is watching me with an amused expression. “Like, is this standard?”
“They’re courting you,” he says, walking over to wrap his arms around my waist from behind. His chin rests on my shoulder and we both look out at the view. “Showing you what life could look like if you sign with them. The nice hotels, the good treatment, all of it.”
“It’s working,” I admit, leaning back against him. “I’m very courted. Extremely courted. If they showed me a walk-in closet right now I’d probably sign anything they put in front of me.”
“Don’t sign anything without reading it first,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “That’s how they get you. Fancy suites and promises of walk-in closets.”
“Too late,” I laugh. “I’ve already been seduced by the thread count on these sheets.”
He turns me around to face him, his hands still on my waist. “How are you doing? Real answer, not a jokey deflection.”
I consider giving him a joke anyway because it’s easier, but he’s looking at me with those green eyes that always seem to see more than I want them to, and I find myself being honest instead.
“I’m nervous. The label party was one thing, casual, low pressure.
But this is the real pitch meeting. What if I say the wrong thing?
What if they decide I’m not what they’re looking for after all? ”
“They already know what you’re capable of.
They’ve heard your music, they met you in Seattle, and they liked you enough to fly you out here.
” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Tomorrow is just about seeing if you’re a good fit with each other.
And if they can’t see how great you are, then they’re idiots and not worth your time. ”
“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. “You’re right. I can do this. It’s just a meeting.”
“Just a meeting,” he agrees, pulling me closer. “Now let’s go explore LA.”