Chapter 57 Wyatt
WYATT
I ADJUST MY HEADPHONES, TRYING to act like I’m not sweating under these lights.
Or maybe it’s the pressure that’s making my collar damp.
The radio studio is smaller than I expected.
Dimly lit and soundproof, with a glowing, red ON AIR sign flashing over the booth window.
I don’t know how I let my manager convince me to do a live interview instead of a prerecorded podcast or something that could be edited in case I make a fool out of myself.
But no. Live radio. Fucking hell. Kill me.
You’re about to perform live for thousands of people for the next six months, a voice in my head points out.
True, I relent. Maybe this interview is a good way to dip my toe in. Prepare for the never-ending spotlight I’m about to be under.
The tour starts in four days, kicking off in Boston because it’s the hometown of Mollie May’s Irish mother, who’ll be backstage for the show. While I’m excited to meet her, I wish the person backstage was Blake, but I haven’t heard from her since fate brought us together on a street in Trenton.
I’m calling it fate, because I refuse to accept that Spencer and Spencer Hanz were right about a ghost spreading her love magic around.
“And that was Wyatt Graham’s ‘Lightkeeper,’” Ashley, the host, chirps into her mic.
Her cohost is a big, bald quipster named Hughie, and the three of us are squished into this hot studio like buns in an oven. They’re cool, if you ignore Hughie’s obnoxious habit of overemphasizing every other word.
“And you guys are in luck,” Hughie tells the listeners, “because we have the Wyatt Graham sitting here in studio with us.”
“Looking real fine, if I might add,” Ashley chimes in, winking at me.
“That song,” Hughie says to me. “Streaming numbers are through the roof, and it just got a review in Rolling Stone. Critics are calling it raw and reckless and sad as hell. So I guess what I want to know is—who hurt you?”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Sad, huh? I thought it was more romantic than sad.”
“Very romantic,” Ashley agrees, nodding. “Big song. Big feelings. Is that what we can expect from the rest of the album?”
“I think so. I worked with Tobey Dodson, who’s so great at pulling out the emotion and getting the best out of you with every track.”
“And how many songs can we expect?”
“Ten, plus a bonus track,” I say, because the publicist that the label connected me with said I need to tease the bonus track. Apparently, people love ’em. “I’m excited for everyone to hear them.”
Grinning, Hughie wags his finger at me. “Now, now, don’t think I didn’t notice you dodging my question. So. ‘Lightkeeper.’ Is it about a real girl?”
I scratch the stubble on my jaw. I forgot to shave this morning because I was too busy preparing for this radio spot.
My sister was firing questions at me on the phone all day.
She tried to catch me off guard with a few, and this was one of them.
I’m supposed to say my music is about no one in particular, but as I’m about to deliver the rehearsed line, I suddenly can’t do it.
Because this whole fucking album is about someone in particular, and it feels wrong to dismiss that.
“It’s about a real girl,” I say gruffly, and both hosts grin at me now.
“Ooh, okay, we’ve got a muse,” Hughie says.
“Yes.”
“And you and this muse,” teases Ashley. “Are you together?”
“Not at the moment,” I admit, then want to smack myself.
The first thing the publicist told me was don’t discuss your personal life, and here I am, talking about Blake.
I quickly try to redirect the conversation.
“Not all the tracks on the album are about love, though. There’s one that explores the idea of family,” I start, but that only opens the door for them to ask about my mother, which leads to two minutes of gushing about how incredible she is.
And yes, Mom is incredible, but I was supposed to stay on point and plug my own work, not hers.
We’re in the middle of discussing how prolific my mother is because of all the genres she’s written in when I notice the producer in the booth pressing a hand to his earpiece.
Then Ashley does the same in her plush seat, and the next thing I know, she lets out an elated laugh and cuts Hughie off midsentence.
“Guys, sorry to interrupt, but plot twist. We’ve got someone on the line claiming to be the muse.”
My shoulders tense. “What?”
Behind the glass, the producer is mouthing the words line three.
“We’re patching her through right now,” Ashley announces. She presses a button, which I deduce is muting all of us, because she winks at me and says, “Just play along, honey. It’s probably some cuckoo bird, but the listeners love this shit.”
There’s a click in my ear, and then a nervous voice comes over the airwaves.
“Hi.”
My heart leaps into my throat.
That is…not a cuckoo bird.
“How’s it going?”
A smile tickles my lips. Hi, how’s it going? She’s calling into a live radio show, and that’s her opening line?
“And to whom are we speaking?” Hughie inquires in a jovial voice.
“Um. I’m sorry. I didn’t plan this ahead of time. I just saw on your social media that you were doing this show, and I couldn’t not call.” She pauses. “I’m talking to Wyatt, by the way, not you, Hughie.”
I choke out a laugh.
Ashley looks at me. “You two know each other?”
When I nod, she motions with her hand to use my words, and I remember we’re on the radio. “Yes, we know each other,” I say, unable to keep the smile off my face.
Hughie pipes up again. “You still haven’t introduced yourself, muse.”
“Oh. Right. My name’s Blake.”
“Solid name,” he tells her.
“Can I talk to Wyatt now?” she asks with a sigh.
Hughie snickers. “Permission granted, muse.”
My pulse is racing as I wait for her to continue.
“So…yeah…I’ve spent the last few days trying to think of the perfect way to grovel, because I’m told that’s how I’m going to win you back,” Blake says, and every person in the booth goes wide-eyed like they just won the lottery.
I imagine this is probably the most exciting thing that’s ever happened at this radio station. Even Ashley is trembling with excitement.
“Freckles,” I start. “You don’t have to—”
“Don’t you dare interrupt her,” Hughie chides.
“I know I messed up.” Blake’s voice trembles.
“I pushed you away, and I said things that I wish I could take back. I’m not going to repeat them here, because I don’t want the whole world knowing our business.
Maybe just part of our business. I said a lot of things, but the one thing I never said is that I love you. ”
I grip the edge of the table, suddenly needing to steady myself. Those words in my ear—and apparently everyone else’s ears—release a flood of emotion inside me.
“I love you,” she repeats. “I love the way you look at me like I’m worth writing songs about. I love how you see me. Like, really see me. And I miss that. I miss being seen by you, and I can’t go another day feeling the absence of that. The absence of you.”
My eyes burn, and I’m worried I’m dangerously close to crying. On live fucking radio.
“You were right. I was telling myself stories too. That I’m not special compared to other people.
I thought that if I hid in the background, nobody would notice how unimpressive I was.
But you know what? I don’t need to impress anyone but myself.
And maybe you, because I want you to be proud of me. ”
Proud of her? Jesus Christ. I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder in my life. The girl of my dreams is professing her love on live fucking radio. It’s the kind of magic that people like me sing about.
“So if you mean it and nothing’s changed, then maybe when you finish your interview, you can come down to the lobby, because that’s where I am right now,” Blake says. “Waiting for you.”
Silence. The entire studio is still and silent. Even Hughie looks a bit misty-eyed.
Swallowing hard, I glance at the hosts. “Would you be mad if I left?”
Ashley lets out a breathless, squeaky laugh. “Oh my God, go get her already.”
I rip off my headphones, and I’m out that door in a heartbeat. Down the narrow hall toward the stairwell, because the station is only two floors and I’m not waiting for a damn elevator. I hurl myself down the stairs two at a time, bursting into the lobby only seconds later.
There she is. Looking beautiful as ever in jeans and a hoodie. My hoodie, I realize. It’s my old band sweatshirt, which she must’ve taken with her from Tahoe. I hadn’t even noticed it was missing.
Her hair is in a braid, strands falling into her eyes, and she pushes them behind her ear before casting a smile in my direction. The smile that stops my world.
For a moment, I don’t move. Eyes locked on her. Afraid that if I blink, she might vanish.
Then she says, “Hi,” and the dam of emotion breaks.
I reach her in three long strides and wrap my arms around her. She hugs me back, crushing herself against me, clinging to me.
When she peers up at me, I see the sincerity shining in her eyes. “I meant everything I said. I love you, Wyatt. And I’m so sorry. After the hospital, I just… I think I lost my mind a little.”
“I’m not angry, baby. I told you I was going to wait.”
And I did wait, because I always knew she would come back to me. That what we had this summer wasn’t just a fantasy or a beautiful dream. It was real. I felt it, and so did she.
“I’m afraid,” Blake admits.
“Of what?”
“Of how much I love you. How much I want to be with you.” Her voice shakes. “I’m afraid that there’s someone else who can make you happier than I can.”
“Jesus, freckles. That’s impossible. Nobody else makes me feel the way you make me feel.
” I stroke her cheek. “Do you remember the night on the roof? The boathouse? You said you wanted to be someone’s obsession.
Their undoing. Well, you’re mine, Blake Josephine Logan.
You want obsession? I think about you every goddamn day.
When we’re in the same room together, I have to force myself not to look at you too long because I know I’ll never look away. ”
Her eyes well up, and I run my thumbs along the bottom of them, catching the tears before they fall.
“I love you.” My voice grows hoarse, and I have to stop to clear my throat. “I need you to tell me you believe me.”
“I believe you—”
I crash my lips over hers before she can finish, kissing her the way I’ve wanted to kiss her since we left Tahoe.
She rises on her tiptoes and kisses me back, hungry and desperate, as if she’s missed this as much as I have, and we stand there kissing in the lobby of a radio station in Boston, the rest of the world forgotten.
My breathing is ragged by the time I pull back. “You being here…” I swallow to moisten my arid throat. “Does that mean you’re coming with me on tour?” I hastily add, “It’s okay if the answer is no—”
“Yes,” she interrupts, her eyes shining. “The answer is obviously yes, Wyatt.”
“What about school?”
“I’m graduating early.”
“And the podcast?”
“We’re recording it over video call until I get back.”
My heartbeat refuses to regulate, hammering wildly against my ribs. “You’re really doing this? You’re coming with me?”
“Yes.” Her eyes, those gorgeous blue eyes, gleam with reassurance. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”