Chapter 32 Nathan
Chapter Thirty-Two
Nathan
I’m going crazy.
It’s the only thing that makes any sense.
I can’t eat. Can’t sleep. Can’t do anything but think about Adrianna and the way she felt in my arms. The way she fell apart. The way she tasted.
I refuse to believe her icing me out is permanent—I mean fuck, if I thought that I might as well just slit my own goddamn throat.
The truth is, I can’t live without her.
She is everything to me, and if she won’t let me touch her, then working, writing, playing this guitar? Well, it’s the next best thing.
Because ultimately, it’s all for her.
I strum the last chord and let it ring, vibrating through the studio air like it’s alive—like I’m alive again.
Like I’m bursting at the seams with emotion and this obsessive need to show her, tell her how I feel.
“Hold on,” I tell Trish as I adjust the mic and hit SAVE three damn times.
The last thing I need is this getting lost in the ether because my computer decides to throw a tantrum.
When I turn back to the video call, Trish is frozen.
Not literally—just stunned.
Her wife leans in over her shoulder, eyes wide, mouth parted.
Finally, Trish exhales the softest, deadliest whisper.
“Holy fuck, Nate.”
A grin splits across my face before I can stop it.
Because I did it.
After years of half-assed songs and record-label bullshit and recycled riffs that never meant anything—I finally wrote something real again.
I finally fixed the broken chords inside me.
Actually—she did.
Adrianna. My Sparky.
My wife.
My heartbeat.
This song is my tribute to her.
Every line.
Every breath.
Every fucking beat.
“I mean, Nate, that’s—well, what about lyrics?”
I nod and glance at the notebook propped up on my desk and read from it.
“I can’t get enough of you. Don’t leave me in the dark. I don’t want to be alone anymore, baby. You’re the spark.”
“Oh, Nate—”
I’m about to thank Trish when the studio door swings open.
I don’t turn right away, I’m still watching Trish shake her head in awe.
Then I hear it—a sharp inhale.
A sound I recognize instantly.
Adrianna.
I swivel in my chair, and there she is in the doorway.
Her hair is piled high on her head in a ponytail that swings when she stops moving.
Her sweet face is flushed from marching across the house.
And those velvet eyes I adore are locked on me with a storm brewing behind them.
She must’ve heard me reading the spoken-word placeholder lyrics I was testing. Because the first thing out of her mouth, low and tight and slicing straight through me, is:
“If she’s all that, then what the hell am I, Nathan?”
My blood runs cold.
“What?” I step forward. “Ad, no—no, it’s not—”
Her gaze snaps to the computer screen where Trish and her wife stare like they’ve wandered into a live episode of a very emotional soap opera.
Adrianna’s voice drops, a threat wrapped in confusion.
“Two women? Wait? Who. Are. You?”
Trish lifts both hands like she’s facing down an armed suspect.
“Oh! Um—hi. I’m Trish. His manager. Married manager. Very married. Gay married. Over-a-decade married. Literally at my wife’s parents’ house for dinner in twenty minutes married—”
I groan and slap a hand over my face.
This is a nightmare.
“Ad, stop,” I say gently. “Please. Come here.”
“No.” Her chin lifts sharply, defense mode slamming into place. “I just heard you—and her—and I—” She shakes her head, eyes bright with a pain she doesn’t want me to see. “I don’t know what I walked in on.”
Fuck.
FUCK.
I curse myself for not closing the damn door. For not knowing she was coming. For not preparing her. For not telling her I was writing a song—HER song.
Trish leans into the screen. “That’s Adrianna? From Adrianna’s Melody? Wow! He was literally singing about you.”
I shoot her a glare. “Trish—”
“What? She needs to know! I swear he’s been insufferably in love since the second he got back to Jersey. I have receipts, lady.”
“Trish, I will fire you,” I mutter.
“No, you won’t,” she says cheerfully. “Anyway! My wife and I are gonna log off before we get blamed for whatever lovers’-quarrel/foreplay is happening here. Bye!”
The screen goes black.
Silence crashes over the room.
Adrianna crosses her arms.
Dangerous. Defensive. Hurt.
“Explain,” she says.
Not loud.
Not angry.
Just wounded.
And that’s somehow worse.
I step closer. Slowly.
“I’m not sure how much you heard, but clearly you didn’t hear the whole thing.”
“Then give me the whole thing.”
“I wasn’t saying all that to Trish or anyone else, Ad.” My voice cracks. “Those are lyrics to the song I’m writing. A song for you. About you. All you. Every word.”
She blinks, thrown.
I swallow hard, heart pounding.
“That line you heard? It starts here, ‘You’re the sun in my sky. My everything. I can’t get enough of you. Don’t leave me in the dark. I don’t want to be alone anymore, baby. You’re the spark. You are the spark.’”
My breath shakes.
“That’s you, Sparky. You always have been.”
Her lip trembles before she bites it.
“I thought you were talking to some, I don’t know, past lover or girlfriend. One of those supermodels you’ve been dating these past sixteen years.”
“No,” I say firmly. “I won’t pretend I’m a saint because I’m not. But I’ve never written a song for anyone else, Sparky. There’s only ever been one muse in my life. One woman. One person who could make the music come back.”
Her eyes widen, but she stays still.
Doesn’t run.
Doesn’t snap.
Waits.
So I give her the truth—raw and unfiltered.
“Adrianna, the second you walked back into my life, the songs started writing themselves again. Ever since I saw you again?” My voice goes rough.
“You broke something open in me. You fixed it. And I’ve been scared to death of overwhelming you, so I kept my distance.
Slept in the music room. Gave you space. ”
Her throat works.
“And you think sleeping somewhere else is giving me space?” Her voice is soft but shaking. “Nathan, that just feels like more rejection.”
Gut.
Punch.
I step closer until she has to tilt her chin to meet my eyes.
“Then I fucked up,” I say, barely above a whisper. “Because the one thing I never want you to feel again is unwanted. Because the truth is, I never wanted anyone the way I want you.”
Her breath stutters.
I reach out slowly—slow enough for her to pull away if she wants.
She doesn’t.
My fingers brush her cheek.
“Let me show you the rest of the song,” I murmur. “Let me show you everything I’ve been scared to say.”
Her lashes flutter. “Nathan, you don’t have to.”
“Yes, I do. Because I’m yours, Sparky,” I whisper. “I’ve always been yours.”
Silence.
Then she says very softly, “Okay, I’m ready to listen. Show me.”