Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Nathan
I can’t stop thinking about Adrianna.
Or our accidental-on-purpose school play sorta date.
It’s been a few days, and I’m climbing the damn walls. I’m like an addict, jonesing for a hit, checking the clock, pacing the house, replaying every second we spent in that dark corner of the auditorium.
Her laugh.
Her soft voice when she talked about Bella.
The way she looked under those lights—gorgeous, warm, real.
I’m so lost for this woman it isn’t even fucking funny.
But truth is—I’ve known that Adrianna Bosco is the woman of my dreams since the third grade.
When she handed me a crayon because mine broke.
When she shared her cookie at lunch.
When she leaned over and whispered, “We’re friends now,” like she’d just announced a lifetime contract.
I wasn’t expecting to still feel this way.
Awestruck.
Dumbfounded.
Perfectly aligned.
Safe.
Home.
Like I could finally breathe for the first time in years.
Do you know what that’s like?
People dream about being rich and famous.
They fantasize about luxury, about being adored, about being untouchable. They think fame is a glittering crown, not a set of chains.
But they don’t know.
Fuck—I didn’t know.
Not until I was knee-deep in it, drowning in the spotlight everyone thinks is pure and precious, when really, it’s fool’s gold.
All the money, the glitz, the glamour?
It comes at a cost.
A steep one.
Sometimes that cost is too much for one person to bear, and they pay anyway because the machine doesn’t care how empty you are as long as you perform.
It’s not just the constant cameras or fake smiles.
It’s time.
Your time.
It’s your conscience, too.
The little bargains you make to survive.
The way you chip pieces off yourself because someone says it’s good for your image.
It’s compromising your faith in yourself, in music, in people.
It’s loneliness.
The kind that sinks its claws into your ribs during a twenty-month world tour while you’re singing to fifty-thousand screaming fans, and not one of them knows you. Not really.
It’s losing track of why you started.
What mattered.
Who you were.
It’s losing your muse.
Losing her.
Because that’s the truth I never wanted to say out loud.
The reason I can’t write anymore?
The reason the music dried up?
The reason everything before right now felt hollow?
It’s her.
It’s always been her.
And maybe that’s why I’m home now.
Maybe that’s why I walked away from the mansion, the parties, the tours.
Adrianna Bosco has always been the pulse under every song I wrote.
Maybe she’s the reason my heart still beats at all.
She's everything I remembered and more.
The only woman I feel like myself with.
The only one I can be real with.
It’s like she sees me. After all these years, she still sees me.
Standing next to her in that gymnasium? She silenced the noise.
The cold, hard truth is Adrianna Bosco is the only woman I’ve ever truly wanted.
She’s the only one I’ve never stopped loving.
And I know I have shit to do, but I can’t stop thinking about her.
I’ve been dodging Trish’s calls for forty-eight hours now.
She’s great and all, but I know she wants to talk about my next steps, and musical direction, and post-label strategy.
Stuff I should care about.
Stuff I used to care about.
But truth is—I don’t. I have no plans when it comes to my career at this time.
Not yet, anyway.
My brain’s too full of Adrianna. She’s in every empty space, every quiet moment. She’s the only thing that feels alive in me right now.
And being with her—even just those few hours, passing cookie bags and laughing about my terrible fake accent with our old teacher—felt so damn easy. Natural. Like we’re still made of the same melody even after all these years.
She doesn’t want anything from me.
Not fame.
Not money.
Not a piece of the spotlight.
Everyone else I meet looks at me like they’re starving—vultures ready to pick a piece of me clean. But not Ad.
She sees me. The real me. The dumb kid I used to be, the messed-up man I am now, everything in between.
And God, I want a chance to show her I can be the man she needs.
The one she deserved back then.
The one she still deserves now.
I look around the house—my house now, I guess—but it doesn’t feel right to call it that yet.
The contractors finished the interior yesterday.
Fresh paint.
Repaired molding.
Refinished wood floors that look like honey.
A brand-new kitchen that smells like sawdust and possibility.
New furniture arriving in waves—beds, couches, the works.
Old furniture almost completely redone.
The place looks great.
Like a magazine spread.
Like a house someone should want to come home to.
But it’s not a home.
Not yet.
It’s missing something.
It’s missing someone.
I run my hand along the new banister, imagining a voice drifting from the kitchen, a laugh echoing down the hall, a soft shape curled up on the couch with a book and a blanket.
I know exactly who I see in every role I imagine.
Every corner of this house.
Every future I’m so damn hungry for.
Fuck it.
I wipe my hands on my jeans, grab my keys, and head for the door.
I’m going to the bakery today.
I need to see her.
I need to see Adrianna like I need air in my lungs.
Even if she kicks me out.
Even if she hates me.
Even if I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.
I’m going anyway.
Because the music might not be back yet, but the feeling is.
And it’s screaming her name.