Chapter 6 Understanding The Situation #2
Inside, Veronica stood at the mic—headphones on, posture perfect, completely in command of the space.
Aarie was just off to the side, working through a line with her, his program and her voice blending and breaking apart as they adjusted phrasing.
The producer sat behind the glass, focused, hand raised slightly as he cued them again.
Greg watched it for a second—not the performance, but the control of it. Every movement placed. Every sound refined. Nothing accidental.
“…Yeah,” he muttered under his breath. “That tracks. Total control.”
“Different world, isn’t it?” The voice came from just behind him. Greg turned slightly. Billy. He was leaning casually against the wall behind him, arms loosely crossed, watching Greg with a look that wasn’t surprised—but wasn’t neutral either.
Greg gave a small nod. “Yeah,” he replied. “Something like that.”
Billy pushed off the wall and stepped closer, glancing once through the glass before looking back at him. “You picked a bad time if you’re looking for her,” he said. “She’s not coming out of there anytime soon.”
Greg’s eyes shifted back to the studio for a second—then returned to Billy. “I figured,” he said. “But I had to see for myself.”
Billy studied him for a moment longer. “So,” he added, tone leveling slightly, “you here for her… or something else?”
Greg didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted once more toward the glass—Veronica, controlled and composed inside the booth—then back to Billy. “…Both,” he said slowly.
That answer didn’t get past Billy. It just made him look at him a little more closely.
“Yeah,” Billy said quietly. “That’s what I thought.
” And just like that—the conversation Greg came for wasn’t the one he was about to have.
Billy shifted his weight slightly, glancing back through the glass once more before stepping away from it.
“Come on,” he said, motioning toward the lounge.
“No point standing out here if you’re not going in.
” Greg didn’t argue. He followed; the image of Veronica singing fading behind them as the sound dropped off almost completely.
The hallway was quieter—deliberately so.
Soon they turned into the lounge. Billy grabbed a bottle of water from the small fridge and tossed one toward Greg, then leaned back against the counter. For a second, neither of them spoke.
Greg twisted the cap off, but didn’t drink. “You’ve been around her,” he said finally. Not a question, but rather an observation.
Billy gave a small nod. “Yeah,” thinking this was about Carry, not Veronica.
Greg looked at him. “Then tell me something I don’t know.”
Billy let out a quiet breath through his nose, like he’d expected that but wasn’t in a hurry to answer it. “You sure you want that?” he asked.
“I didn’t come here for small talk,” Greg replied.
That earned the faintest hint of a smirk—but it faded just as quickly.
Billy looked down at the bottle in his hands for a moment, then moved over to the couch.
He motioned for Greg to sit as well, then started turning the water bottle around in his hands slightly before speaking.
“She didn’t walk out because she didn’t care,” he said.
Greg’s jaw tightened slightly as it hit him this wasn’t about Veronica anymore. “I didn’t say she didn’t.”
“You didn’t have to,” Billy replied calmly.
His eyes lifted again—not sharp, just steady.
“That’s how it looked from your side.” Greg didn’t interrupt.
Billy nodded once, like he was organizing it the way he remembered it.
“She thought she didn’t matter,” he said.
“Not in the way she thought she did.” A slight pause.
“Everything that was happening—Alice, Veronica, the pressure—she was trying to figure out where she fit in it.” He glanced off briefly, then back.
“And every time she looked, it didn’t point back to her. ”
Greg’s grip tightened around the bottle, but he stayed quiet.
“She told me she felt like she was standing there… watching her own place in your life get smaller,” Billy continued.
“Not all at once. Just… piece by piece.” He made a small motion with his hand.
“Like something was shifting and she couldn’t stop it.
” Greg looked away for a second, his jaw flexing.
“I tried to tell her she was wrong,” Billy added.
“That you weren’t seeing it that way.” A faint pause. “She didn’t believe me.”
“Why?” Greg asked quietly, carefully watching Billy’s body posture, measuring him up and down to gauge his answer.
Billy held his gaze for a moment. “Because of what she saw,” he said simply. “Not what you meant.” That landed.
Greg exhaled slowly, looking down now. “…I was trying to protect her,” he said.
“I know,” Billy replied. He shifted slightly to his right as Greg looked back up, surprised at how quickly that came. Billy gave a small nod. “That’s the part she never doubted,” he said. “She just didn’t think she was the reason you were doing it.” Silence settled between them.
Greg leaned back slightly, running a hand through his hair. “…She thought she was on the outside then,” he concluded.
“Yeah,” Billy said quietly. “By the end of it… she was already there in her head.” That one didn’t move. It stayed.
Greg swallowed once, the weight of it finally lining up in a way it hadn’t before. Not confusion. Not pressure. Something simpler—and worse. “I should’ve gone after her,” he said.
Billy didn’t answer that immediately. Instead, he looked down again, then back up—measured, careful. “Yeah,” he said finally. “You probably should’ve.” There was no edge to it. Just truth, and a look on Billy’s face that said there was reticence in admitting this.
Greg let out a breath, slower this time. “…She talk about coming back to Pimico?” he asked. That question shifted something—but only slightly.
Billy’s fingers tightened around the bottle just enough to notice.
“Not really,” he said. “She was trying to figure out how to move forward.” A pause.
“Not how to go back. It seems that she felt there was only one option left by that point.” Greg nodded once, looking down again, taking it all in.
Billy watched him for a second longer, then sat forward, his elbows on his knees now with the water bottle just below his face.
“Look,” he said, tone easing just a fraction, “I’m not telling you this to shut you out.
” He hesitated—but only briefly. “She still cares about you. That didn’t just disappear.
” Greg looked up, keen to see what he said next.
“But whatever you do,” Billy added, holding his gaze now, “don’t go to her like you did before.
” A slight pause. “She won’t hear it the same way again. ”
That sat there. Greg nodded once, slower this time. “Yeah,” he said. “…I know.”
Billy didn’t respond. He just gave a small nod—like that was enough. But it wasn’t neutral. Not entirely. Because for just a second—before he looked away—there was something else there. Not spoken. Not offered. But present. His body posture and a look in his eyes. “So, there you have it, Greg.”
“I see,” he said slowly, stroking his chin. “Thanks Billy, for the brutal honesty. I’m just going to rest my eyes here a moment while we wait for Veronica to finish her session.” He leaned back into the couch with his head on the top of the backrest, then closed his eyes.
“Sure thing, Greg. If you don’t mind, I’ve got some thoughts for a song running through my head, and I’ll be strumming my guitar while I try to work out the lyrics.”
“That’s fine, Billy. It won’t bother me in the least.” Greg paused for a moment and peeked at Billy. “In fact, it might help me relax.”
“Sure. I always relax better when I hear music,” Billy suggested as he got up to grab his guitar from the corner then return to the couch. He strummed a few notes and chords.”
“Sounds kind of nice, Billy,” Greg said then closed his eyes again. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”
Billy settled back into the couch, the guitar resting naturally against him as his fingers found a quiet progression without thinking.
Soft. Measured. Nothing loud enough to carry beyond the room.
Just enough to fill the space without disturbing it.
Greg stayed leaned back, eyes closed, the tension in his face easing just slightly as the sound settled in.
Billy glanced over once—just to make sure—then looked back down at the strings.
He let the chords repeat. And without trying to—his mind drifted.
Not to the studio. Not to Greg. But back to that night.
The reception had been louder than this.
Full. Alive. People moving, talking, celebrating.
He remembered standing off to the side at first, not really planning to play anything unless asked—just something to fill space between songs to keep up the conversations.
Something easy. That’s when Carry had come up beside him without much announcement.
“Is that all you’re doing, just standing by to play?” Carry had asked, a slight smile in her voice more than on her face.
Billy had glanced over, a little caught off guard. “Depends,” he said. “What all you’re planning to listen to?” That had pulled a real smile out of her.
“Fair enough,” she said, the tension slightly easing on her face.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked.
Carry had looked out toward the floor for a second, then back at him. “Not like that,” she said.
Billy shrugged lightly. “Doesn’t have to be like anything.”
There had been a moment—just a second—where she thought about saying no.
Then she stepped forward anyway. He remembered how light it was at first. Not formal.
Not structured. Just movement that matched where he was leading.
He kept the rhythm simple, watching her adjust to it, then subtly shifting it again—letting her find it instead of forcing it.