Page 75 of Score
“Why are you being such an asshole about something that happened over a decade ago?” I ask. “I wasn’t even at Finley a full year, and we were together even less.”
“Next you’ll say we barely knew each other.” He lifts one brow. “That how you want to play this?”
He’s right because it felt like I already knew him the night we met. Not the details that came later—his favorite movie, the song he sang at his grandfather’s funeral, what he’d save in a fire—but something more elemental that drew us together immediately. Inexorably.
“I don’t want toplaythis any kind of way,” I say after a moment to gather my scattered thoughts. “I want us to get past it. You knew more about me in a few months than anyone ever had, and I knew you. I just messed up. I was young and reckless, and I messed up.”
“It took a lot for me to trust anyone the way I trusted you, and you were… What we had meant a lot to me. I know it wasn’t the same to you, but—”
“It was.”
I shouldn’t have said it; should let him go on thinking I was some cheat who took what we had for granted, but hearing the hurt behind his harshness, I can’t. He flashes me a look so scornful, I press my hand over my heart, as if that would protect me from the daggers he’s shooting at me.
“This would be easier,” he bites out, “if you’d stop lying to me. Stop pretending it was something it wasn’t. Like you said. We were both young and I expected too much.”
“Okay. Whatever,” I sigh, closing my eyes to block out the enmity in his. “I don’t know what I can do to make this right, but I do know we won’t get through the next six months of this shoot if you can’t let it go. Webothhave to let this go if we’re going to work together.”
I lean against the counter and wearily push the hair out of my face.
“This film is the most amazing thing that’s ever happened in my career,” I admit, deciding to drop my guard and share something true. Something real. Something I hope will break through that wall his anger erected between us. “Telling Dessi’s story feels like something I’ve been waiting for all my life. Canon has assembled the kind of stellar team Dessi deserves, and we’re both a part of that. Can we get past our shit long enough to not just tolerate each other, but truly work together? Because if we can figure out how to do that, we could do something special. For her.”
He searches my face, and maybe what he finds there steals his fight. The tightness around his mouth loosens and he drops his gaze to the floor.
“You’re right,” he says. “It’s rare that we get to tell a story like this. It’s a shame that a life as rich and uniquely American as Dessi’s has been buried.”
“Erased. Dessi and artists like her were used for their gifts and then discarded, forgotten.” I pause and look at him with as much sincerity as I can. “We get to make that right in some small way.”
“Yeah.” He nods. “We do.”
“So… truce?” I ask, holding my breath like I’m defusing a bomb.
For a few tight seconds, I think it’s impossible; that too much has passed between us for this to work, but Monk is an artist first. Maybe I offered the one thing that could make him set aside his resentment, at least long enough to do Dessi justice, because the tight mask his face has beenevery time I’ve seen him since that last night eases. At least long enough to show me the man I fell for. The man I broke.
After a moment, he extends his hand to me. “Truce.”
With a grin, I accept, and the simple contact steals my breath just like it did all those years ago the night we met. A familiar strike of lightning. An irrepressible spark. His eyes catch mine, the only acknowledgment that he feels it, too.
“Looks like you guys are making peace in here,” Canon says, watching us from the kitchen entryway, his gaze bouncing between Monk and me.
“All good.” Monk drops my hand and sports that now-familiar smirk. “I’mma bounce, but I’ll get you my thoughts on vocalists for some of the stuff we’ll need.”
“Alright.” Canon fist-bumps his friend and watches him leave before turning back to me. “The two of you gonna be able to pull this off without killing each other?”
“Guess so.” I shrug and let out a humorless laugh. “At least I think now we’re going to try.”
Canon doesn’t quite look convinced, and I can’t blame him because, even though I feel a little lighter as I drive home, neither am I.
TWENTY-THREE
Monk
Working on one of the biggest projects of your career with one of your closest friends is the stuff dreams are made of. Canon and I met on the set of a music video when were nobodies. Fresh out of college, I had cowritten a shitty song and Canon was directing the video. On set, he scowled and yelled at everybody and was generally the kind of ass you can afford to be when you’re famous, but not when you’re nobody.
Andyou Black. Nigga, what?
“Bruh,” I had said, pulling him aside between takes. “This ain’tThe Godfatherand you ain’t Francis Ford Coppola. I mean, come on. The song is called ‘Grind Up on Me, Girl.’ I wrote it andI’mnot even taking this as seriously as you are. You need to dial the attitude down.”
He watched through narrowed eyes for maybe ten seconds. Then his stern mouth twitched, and he started laughing so hard he almost doubled over.
