Chapter 13 #2
That he understood what they meant, even back then.
The ache in my chest sharpens, spreading like a bruise beneath my ribs.
I shove the lyrics aside before I can think too hard about them.
The last thing in the envelope is a letter.
The paper is smooth beneath my fingertips, heavier than the notebook paper, the kind of stationary that looks expensive but understated.
The date catches my eye before anything else.
February 14th—last year.
Valentine’s Day.
I frown.
That was the day he gave me this stupid envelope.
My pulse pounds as I unfold the letter.
Anna,
I know this doesn’t fix anything. I know it doesn’t change what I did. I stole from you and I don’t expect forgiveness.
But I want you to have what was always yours. The song, the rights—every cent it’s ever made. It belongs to you. It always has.
I never should have taken it from you, and if I could go back and change it, I would. But I can’t. So instead, I’ll do the only thing I can.
After tonight, I won’t play it again.
Not on stage. Not in interviews. Not for an encore. It’s yours. I had no right to it.
I’m sorry, Ace.
—Joel
The words blur as I read them again.
And again.
After tonight, I won’t play it again.
My throat tightens.
He thought I’d open this letter that night.
That I’d read it immediately.
He thought I’d know.
And all this time—a year and a half later—I had no clue. Hell, he’s been in my house for four days and he hasn’t even said anything.
The song is his biggest hit. He could have played it forever and no one would have questioned it.
I grab my phone with numb fingers, pulling up YouTube.
I type his name, my breath coming faster as I scroll through the search results.
Tour dates. Interviews. Live performances.
But the song?
I can’t find it.
I switch to Google.
I dig through fan sites and forums.
Why did Joel Price suddenly stop playing his biggest hit?
Did something happen? Did he lose the rights?
Is he planning an acoustic rerelease? He HAS to bring it back!!
My heart slams against my ribs.
He really stopped.
He really meant it.
I stare at the letter in my hands, fingers trembling.
The sound of the front door opening shatters the silence.
My body jolts so hard I nearly knock my laptop off my desk.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
Joel’s home.
My pulse kicks up, panic slamming through me as I scramble to shove everything back into the envelope.
The check, the contract, the lyrics, the letter—all of it.
I shove the envelope back into the drawer, slamming it shut just as his footsteps hit the hallway.
My hands are too hot.
The paper lingers on my fingertips, phantom-weighted, like it’s burned itself into my skin. I flex my fingers, pressing my palms flat against my desk, trying to force the feeling to go away.
I barely have a second to school my features, to erase every single emotion clawing up my throat before he appears in the doorway.
I am calm. I am normal. I am totally fine.
I force my shoulders to relax, casually reaching for my laptop like I wasn’t just on the verge of a full-blown existential crisis.
Joel leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, his gaze too sharp, too knowing as it sweeps over me.
Something is different.
I can feel it before he even speaks.
I don’t like it.
I really don’t like it.
But I pretend not to notice.
Instead, I lift my chin, blinking at him with forced disinterest. “You’re back early. Not enough groupies tonight?”
Joel doesn’t answer right away.
His gaze flicks to the desk—to the drawer.
My stomach clenches.
Oh god, does he know?
He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel it in the shift of his stance, the slight tilt of his head, the way he watches me like he’s putting something together.
I tighten my grip on my laptop, tilting the screen slightly as if I was deep in work—as if I wasn’t just reading a letter that’s completely fucked with my entire night.
“Busy?” he asks, voice low, amused.
I lift a brow, forcing a casual shrug. “I’m always busy, Price.”
Joel huffs a laugh, stepping further into the office. “Yeah? What are you working on?”
My stomach twists.
He’s too close.
I cannot do this right now.
So I go with distraction and deflection, the only tools I have left.
I tap my keyboard like I’m totally focused. “Oh, you know. World domination. The usual.”
Joel hums, taking another step closer.
And then—
He reaches out.
Before I can react, before I can shift away, his fingers brush just behind my ear, tucking a loose strand of hair back into place.
Every single muscle in my body locks up.
Heat flares under my skin, sharp and startling, as his fingertips graze the edge of my jaw for a fraction of a second too long.
It’s nothing.
A tiny movement. A brief touch.
But my pulse fucking jumps.
My breath catches in my throat.
I can’t move.
Can’t breathe.
Joel is standing too close, touching me too softly, looking at me too intently.
And why the hell does he smell so good after a performance?
His lips twitch, like he knows exactly what he just did.
Like he can hear the way my heartbeat just spiked.
I snap out of it.
I jerk back, reaching up and pointedly tucking my hair behind my own damn ear.
Joel’s smirk deepens, his gaze flicking to my hands before dragging back up to my face.
“Relax, Ace,” he murmurs. “Just a little hair out of place.”
I hate him.
I hate that my face is warm.
I hate that my pulse is still hammering.
I hate that he looks so fucking pleased with himself.
I cross my arms, leaning back in my chair, forcing every ounce of disinterest into my expression.
“Well, thanks for that life-changing gesture,” I deadpan. “Truly. I don’t know how I would have survived without it.”
Joel chuckles.
It’s a low sound, smooth and slow, like he knows something I don’t.
He doesn’t leave right away. He lingers.
Just a second too long.
Like he’s weighing something. Like he’s putting together a puzzle and just found the missing piece.
Then, so softly I almost miss it—
He nods once to himself.
Like he’s confirming something.
The realization settles behind his smirk.
Not cocky.
Not teasing.
Just certain.
And then, finally, he steps back.
“Don’t work too hard,” he says, turning toward the hallway.
I don’t respond.
Because I can’t. I’m still reeling.
I wait until I hear his bedroom door click shut, the sound far too loud in the quiet apartment.
Then, slowly, my gaze flits to the drawer.
I don’t know what’s worse.
The fact that I finally caved in and opened that stupid envelope—
Or the fact that now, for the first time in a decade, I don’t know what to think of Joel.
What alternate universe is this?