2. Geo #3
I go back to the bedroom and take the gold dress off. It goes into the garment bag, carefully, and the zip goes closed, sealing away the woman I tried to be tonight along with the silk.
I think about Vivian at coffee, laughing about her teenage crush. I used to imagine what it would be like to write with him.
I remember the way Harrison smiled when she corrected him. The ease of it. The pride.
She’s your sister, I tell myself. She called you her sister. She held your hand.
You’re being crazy.
You’re being insecure and jealous and unfair.
But the feeling won’t go away. It sits in my chest like a stone, and no amount of logic can dissolve it.
I don’t cry.
I’m too confused for that.
By Friday, “Golden Hour” exists as a rough recording.
Harrison posts a snippet to Instagram at 10 p.m., while I’m putting Val to bed: thirty seconds of him and Vivian singing the bridge, their voices intertwined in close harmony, the camera catching them both in soft focus, lit like a trailer.
They’re looking at each other instead of the camera, their faces bright with the glow of people making beautiful work together.
I watch it while Val sleeps beside me, her warm body curled against mine, her breath slow and sweet with toothpaste.
By morning, the view count is at one million.
By Sunday night, it’s at eighteen million, and the comments have become a horror show I can’t stop scrolling through.
omg they sound PERFECT together
his wife could never
the way he looks at her I’m DEAD
isn’t he married??? to some old lady???
mom energy vs main character energy
vivian is so gorgeous he must be miserable at home lol
DIVORCE HER AND DATE VIVIAN CHALLENGE
I scroll until my eyes burn, unable to stop, each comment a small wound that I keep reopening because at least the pain is concrete. At least it’s proof that I’m not imagining this, that other people can see what I see, that the shift in my marriage isn’t just paranoia dressed up as intuition.
Someone has found a photo of me from a family barbecue two years ago.
I’m in a stained t-shirt, my hair in a messy bun, holding Val on my hip while trying to flip burgers with my free hand.
They’ve posted it beside a professional shot of Vivian, perfectly lit, perfectly styled, perfectly young, with the caption: girl what is he DOING with her
Harrison finds me on the couch, my phone resting on my lap, staring at nothing.
“Eighteen million,” he says, and he’s vibrating with excitement, his phone clutched in both hands like a trophy. “In three days. Do you understand what this means?”
I don’t answer. I can’t answer. There’s a sharpness in my throat that won’t let words past.
“Geo?”
He sits beside me, shows me the screen. The comments scroll past, a constant stream of people speculating about his marriage, about his wife, about the woman he should be with instead of me. “Look at these numbers. This is bigger than anything I’ve done in years.”
“The comments are a horror show.”
“People are assholes online. You know that.”
“They’re calling me old. They’re calling me your mother.”
“It’s just noise, Geo. Look at the engagement numbers. Look at what this could do for my career.”
I hand the phone back. My hands are shaking slightly, and I don’t know if it’s rage or grief or an emotion I don’t have a word for yet.
“Can’t you just be happy for me?”
Harrison asks, and there’s an edge to his voice now, sharp and tired. “This is huge. This is everything I’ve been working toward. And you’re making it about some random comments.”
“I’m not making it about anything.”
He stands, shoves his hands into his pockets, begins to pace. “This is the biggest thing that has happened to me in years, Geo. I just want to enjoy it for one night. Just once, I want to celebrate something without the whole thing turning heavy. Is that so much to ask?”
I stare at him. The man I married. The man who used to tell me I was the most beautiful woman in any room.
“I need to pick up Val from my mother’s,” I say.
I leave before he can see me cry.
***
Harrison
The door closes behind Geo, and I feel a flicker of guilt that I immediately suffocate.
She’s been distant since Val was born. I know this. Everyone knows this. She used to be my partner, my collaborator, my best friend. We used to spend hours in the studio together, her voice blending with mine, her ideas pushing my music in directions I never would have found alone.
Now she’s a mother first, and everything else comes second.
Including me. Including our marriage. Including herself, if I’m honest.
She used to sing. Before we got married, before Val, she had a voice that could stop me mid-sentence.
She’d been on the verge, a demo deal, some interest from a small label, and then she got pregnant and decided to put it all on hold.
“Just until the baby’s older,” she’d said.
But older kept getting pushed back, and the demo deal evaporated, and eventually she stopped singing altogether.
Stopped even humming around the house. Like she’d closed off that part of herself and sealed the door.
I told myself it was her choice. I told myself I supported whatever she wanted.
But somewhere along the way, the woman who used to harmonize with me in the kitchen became someone who flinched when I played music too loud.
Who looked at my guitar like it was a rival instead of an extension of who I am.
Vivian gets it. Vivian looks at me like I’m still worth looking at. She listens when I talk about music, really listens, her whole body leaned toward me like she’s trying to absorb every word. She challenges me in the studio, pushes back when I’m being lazy, celebrates when I break through.
She makes me feel like I used to feel. Before the mortgage and the schedule and the endless compromise of adult life.
This is the break I need. Creatively. Professionally. Maybe…
No. I’m not thinking about that.
My phone buzzes. A text from Craig, my manager:
Need to talk. Urgent. Your place tomorrow.
I look at the studio door, at the piano where the magic has been happening, at the space Vivian left behind when she went to get food.
I feel alive for the first time in years.
I don’t let myself think about what that means.
Craig Hollister has managed my career for twelve years. He knows where all the bodies are buried. He also knows how to make money, which is why I have a house in the hills and a studio that cost more than most people’s first mortgages and a wife who has never had to worry about bills.
“I’ll be direct,” Craig says. We’re in the living room, the studio door closed, Vivian upstairs working alone. “The video is bigger than anything you’ve done in three years. The label is losing their minds. They want to capitalize immediately.”
“We’re already talking about a full release.”
“Not just the song.”
Craig leans forward, and I can see the calculation behind his eyes, the way he’s already running numbers, projecting outcomes, measuring my resistance against his leverage. “The story. You and Vivian. The chemistry. The narrative.”
“What narrative are we talking about?”
“Come on, Harrison. You’re not stupid. The internet thinks you’re having an affair with your wife’s stepsister, and they love it.”
“I’m not having an affair.”
“I didn’t say you were. I said they think you are, and that’s worth more than anything I could manufacture.”
My stomach tightens. “What are you suggesting?”
Craig is quiet for a moment, choosing his words with the precision of a surgeon selecting instruments.
“I’m suggesting that we let the public believe you and Geo have been privately separated for a while. Amicable, co-parenting, no drama. And that what’s happening with Vivian is… organic. Real.”
“You want me to lie about my marriage.”
“I want you to let people draw their own conclusions from information we strategically provide. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
Craig shrugs, unbothered by the moral implications. “The fans don’t want the wife. They want the muse. They want the love story. You give them Vivian and they’ll give you the biggest comeback of your career. Sold-out tour. Grammy consideration. Everything you’ve been working toward.”
I think about Geo. About the gold dress. About the way she looked at me last night, like she was already in mourning.
I picture Vivian in the studio, her voice blending with mine like we were made for it.
Then the comments, the millions of people who already believe I’ve made my choice.
“I need to think about it.”
“Don’t think too long. The window is narrow.”
Craig leaves. I sit alone in my living room, listening to Vivian sing upstairs, and tell myself I haven’t decided anything yet.