Chapter 27 #2
Don’t think about Jack. Think about the opportunity. The exposure. The career-launching platform that Maya just handed you on a silver platter.
I start making coffee because it’s either that or day-drinking at ten in the morning, and I’m trying to be a functional adult here.
The familiar routine is soothing—measuring grounds, pouring water, hitting the button and listening to the machine gurgle to life.
I lean against the counter and let my head drop back, staring at the ceiling.
What if Jack brings someone else to the race? Some gorgeous model type who fits into his world way better than I ever did. What if I have to watch him with someone new while I’m trying to perform songs that don’t even sound like me anymore.
The coffee maker beeps and I pour myself a massive mug. My phone sits on the counter where I left it, face down. I should probably text Maren. Or my mom. Someone who can talk me down.
But when my phone buzzes, I practically lunge for it like a desperate person, my heart doing that stupid leap thinking maybe it’s Jack, maybe he finally—
Kelly’s name flashes across the screen.
Kelly, who chose Brandon over our friendship and then started dating him like our entire friendship meant nothing. Kelly, who I’ve spent considerable therapy hours trying to stop being angry at because holding onto that hurt was only hurting me.
My hand hovers over the phone. I should just delete it. Pretend I never saw it. Go back to successfully ignoring her existence. But curiosity is a terrible, powerful thing.
I pick up the phone and open the message.
Kelly: I know this is overdue, and I know it’s shitty to do this in a text, but I don’t know if I could face you in person.
I’m back in Seattle now. I dumped Brandon.
I’m so sorry about what happened at your open mic night.
I had no idea he would insist we go, and I’m sorry I let him talk me into it.
He’s a horrible person and I guess I’ve finally realized that.
I messed up, and then I kept trying to tell myself I was happy when I wasn’t.
I’m not asking you to forgive me, but I just wanted you to know I was wrong, and regret the hurt I caused.
I’m sorry I didn’t apologize sooner. For all of it.
I read it three times. Kelly dumped Brandon. Kelly is apologizing. Kelly is admitting she was wrong. Two years. Two years of radio silence. Two years of seeing them together on social media, living their life while I picked up the pieces of everything they destroyed. And now this.
I set the phone down and press the heels of my hands against my eyes. I don’t know what to feel. Angry? Relieved? Vindicated that she finally sees what I saw all along about Brandon?
Part of me wants to text back something cutting. Something that makes her feel even a fraction of the pain she caused when she chose him over me, when she showed up at my open mic night on his arm to twist the knife one more time.
But I’m so tired of being angry. So tired of carrying this hurt around like luggage I can’t put down.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. What do I even say to this? “It’s okay”? Because it’s not okay. “I forgive you”? Because I’m not sure I do. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I take a sip of coffee, letting the warmth ground me. Then I type slowly, carefully.
Me: I need to think this over and I’m not sure that I can forgive you. But thank you for reaching out. I really do wish you the best.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself. It’s honest. It’s not cruel. And it’s all I can manage right now. The typing bubbles appear immediately.
Kelly: I understand. I wish you the best too, Lark.
I set the phone down and just stand there in my kitchen, mug clutched in both hands, trying to process the emotional whiplash of the last hour. Vegas. Jack. Kelly. My career. My heart. Everything feels like it’s spinning too fast and I can’t quite catch my breath.
I turn to George, my potted plant on the counter that’s somehow thriving despite my complete negligence.
“George, buddy,” I say to the plant. “It’s like Wacky Wednesday or something. What other wild text or call is going to come through? Is Brandon going to apologize next? Is my high school ex going to propose? Are aliens going to land and ask for my demo?”
George, mercifully, doesn’t respond. Just sits there looking unreasonably cheerful with his bright green leaves, like he’s got all the answers and isn’t sharing.
I take my coffee to the couch and curl up in the corner, my mind still racing.
Two weeks until Vegas. Two weeks to prepare.
Two weeks to figure out how to perform songs I don’t connect with, how to exist in Jack’s world without falling apart, how to prove to Maya and Tidal Records that I’m worth signing.
No pressure or anything.
Trivia night at the Black Lantern is always chaos in the best possible way.
The place is packed but not slammed, that perfect level of busy where everyone’s having a good time without the stress of being in the weeds.
Teams are scattered around the bar, huddled over their answer sheets, arguing in loud whispers about state capitals and eighties movie trivia.
Sarah’s running trivia for the first time tonight and absolutely killing it.
She’s got the mic, her voice projecting over the crowd with this confident energy that makes me ridiculously proud.
I usually handle trivia, but with everything happening with my music I’ve been training her up, and she’s a natural.
“Alright, question seven!” Sarah announces, and the bar quiets down. “In what year did—”
“She’s so good at this,” Maren says beside me, leaning against the bar. We’re both watching from our post, taking advantage of the lull between questions when nobody’s ordering drinks.
“Right?” I grin. “I told her she’d be great. She was so nervous about it too.”
“You’re a good teacher.” Maren bumps my shoulder with hers. “So. Vegas. Formula One. Are we freaking out? Are we excited? What’s the vibe we’re going for here?”
I sigh, fiddling with a coaster. “I mean, it’s insane. This could actually change everything for me.”
“It is huge,” Maren agrees, watching me carefully. “You don’t sound as excited as I thought you’d be.”
“No, I am! I’m excited. It’s just…” I trail off, trying to find words for the tangled mess of emotions. “It’s a lot. The timeline is crazy. Two weeks to prepare. And the songs they want me to do are the pop versions. The ones from the demos I recorded in Seattle.”
“The ones you didn’t love,” Maren fills in gently.
“Yeah. Those,” I say. “And I haven’t been sleeping well, which doesn’t help. Though on the plus side I’ve been really productive at three in the morning. I started working on a new song.” Jack-inspired, but that’s a conversation that requires wine and tissues I don’t have right now.
“Silver lining,” Maren says with a small smile.
“Exactly. Anyway, Maya says if this goes well, if I prove I can deliver this sound live, they’ll sign me. Official contract. So it’s worth it, right? It has to be.”
“It has to be,” Maren echoes, but she’s still watching me with that careful expression. Like she’s trying to read between my words.
“If I don’t completely bomb it.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I mean, that’s the real concern here. What if I get up there and freeze? What if the stage fright kicks in and I can’t get through a single song? You know my track record with performing live.”
Maren’s expression softens. “Hey. You’ve been working on that.”
“Working on it doesn’t mean I’ve fixed it.” The memory of every failed performance makes my chest tight. “And this is Formula One. Thousands of people. Cameras everywhere. International coverage. If I freeze up there, it’s not just embarrassing, it’s career-ending before my career even starts.”
“You’ve had good performances too,” Maren says firmly, squeezing my shoulder. “You can do this. The stage fright is real, but so is your talent. And you’re going to get up there and prove it to yourself. I know you will.”
I want to believe her.
Sarah’s voice carries over the crowd again, reading out the next question, and we both turn to watch. Eddie’s team in the corner is having a heated debate about something, Marcus gesturing wildly while his teammate tries to shush him.
“Have you heard from Jack?” Maren asks quietly.
My stomach drops. “No. Nothing yet.”
“Lark—”
“I know what you’re going to say,” I interrupt, keeping my voice light. “That I should reach out. That we both said things we didn’t mean.”
“I mean, yeah.” Maren gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Listen, believe me, I’m going to give him a big old kick in the pants for leaving so suddenly without talking to you or his brothers. Calvin too. But maybe it’s worth texting him. Just to clear the air.”
I force a smile. “No way. I have too much pride for that.” I pause. “Maybe that’s the problem. Anyway, lighter subjects. Please. I can’t spiral about Jack right now or I’ll lose it completely.”
Maren studies me for a long moment, then nods. “Okay. Lighter topics.” She drums her fingers on the bar, thinking. “Ooh! What are you going to wear on stage? Because this is Vegas, Formula One, international coverage. You need something that screams ‘I’m about to be a star.’”
“Ooh, now we’re talking.” I feel myself relax slightly, grateful for the subject change. “Something that says ‘I’m talented and professional but also cool and approachable.’ You know, casual. Easy.”
“So basically impossible,” Maren laughs.
“Exactly.” I’m grinning. “I was thinking maybe something—”
“Wait!” Maren’s eyes light up. “What about that beaded dress you have? The dark blue one with the silver details?”
I pause, picturing it. I do look pretty damn good in that. “You think? Not too much?”