Page 172 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
It’s one of my shots from The Factory on Saturday night. The stage lights cut through the dark, the crowd blurred beneath them, and Ryder at the center of it. He’s not performing yet, just standing there with his guitar, looking like he’s deciding something.
Miranda actually printed it.
And it’s not just tucked away in her office. It’s out on display for anyone to see.
She’s proud of me.
“Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?” Mrs. Rodriguez asks, her eyes back on me.
I think about the letters in the filing cabinet. The college pages on my laptop, and the legal firms bookmarked on my phone. The escape plan I’d been building in case I needed to use it.
“I think I’m where I’m supposed to be,” I say. “For now.”
Mrs. Rodriguez holds my gaze for a moment, and then she caps her pen and smiles. “That’s good to hear, Alice.”
She closes her clipboard, and she and Miranda stand, exchanging a few professional words about the next scheduled check-in. I stand too and shake Mrs. Rodriguez’s hand, and then Miranda walks her to the door.
I stay in the sitting room, looking at the photograph on the mantelpiece. The shot catches Ryder as himself. All the performance stripped away, and the decision to step toward the music.
I took that.
“Mrs. Rodriguez seemed satisfied,” Miranda says, walking back into the sitting room.
“I think so.”
“I love that one,” Miranda says, nodding at the mantle. “I wish he’d feel that at ease during every performance.”
“He seems very determined now that his parents are here.”
Miranda gives a small nod, as if that settles it. “Yes, it should be good motivation. Are you heading back to the library?”
“Yeah. Maybe he’ll still be in there.”
Miranda picks up her planner and walks toward the staircase. “Don’t let him talk his way out of the essay.”
When I get back to the library, I’m shocked to find Ryder still there. He’s at the far end of the table with the novel open and his tablet beside him, and he’s actually working.
He doesn’t look up when I come in, but the quality of his stillness shifts.
I take the chair across from him, fan through my notes on the table, and pull out the essay prompt.
Ryder closes the book on his thumb to keep his place. His eyes go to the doorway, and then to me.
“Where were we?” he says.
“We hadn’t started yet.”
He nods and opens his book again. I glance at his tablet, and I clock half a page of bulky paragraphs.
Ryder shifts in his chair. “So, who was here?”
I look up and find him still looking down at the novel.
“Social services,” I say. “A follow-up visit.”
He’s quiet for a moment, but then shuts the book and leans back in his chair. This time he looks at me. “Everything okay?”
I shrug it off. “Fine.”
