Page 24 of The Music of Us
“What?”
“I can stay through the weekend. Hold the livestream Sunday. That should be good enough. I have some lunch thing Marie’s bugging me to be at on Monday, so it all has to be over by then.”
That was exactly seven days. It somehow seemed way too short and far too long.
“Good,” I forced myself to say. “A week from now. Then you’re gone.”
Jake’s eyes stayed locked on mine as I held my breath. It felt like tug-of-war, with each of us holding fast to the tetherbetween us, too proud to pull, too stubborn to loosen our grip and ease the tension. I was determined not to be the one who looked away first.
“Then I’m gone,” he echoed.
I got my hollow victory, because Jake dropped his gaze—just like I knew he would.
After all, he’d been the one to give up on us first four years ago.
Jake leaned back, then picked up his phone, his thumbs flicking across the screen.
With an exhale, I fell back into my chair too. This dynamic between the new Jake and me felt confusing. One minute we were getting along fine, like old times, and the next we were facing off. The rapid changes were giving me relationship vertigo.
I watched Jake tap his phone screen. “What are you doing?”
“Running all this by my manager. Since she wanted the photo op, I’m sure she’ll want this. And I’d like the opportunity to perform again before our tour too.” Ah. So that’s also why Jake was so on board for this. “It feels so far away, and I’m itching to sing again.”
So far away, and yet it was scheduled for fall. But then, that was Jake. Any moment without a melody was a moment too long.
“I shouldn’t have any problem doing a song or two by myself—Phillip gave a solo performance of ‘Moonglow’ last year when he went back to the UK for one of his parents’ charity balls. But I still have to clear it with Marie.” He frowned. “She’s probably not expecting to hear from me since me and the guys are all on...” He paused there, tongue peeping out between his teeth for a second as he concentrated on typing his message.“Vacationbefore tour, but hopefully Marie will get back to me soon and give me permission.”
“You need permission?” I asked in surprise. “For your own songs?” That didn’t sound fair. “Didn’t you help write a few of them?”
He paused, thumbs hovering over the screen. He stared at me, his hazel eyes gleaming with a nearly piercing curiosity. What had I said to warrant such an intense look again?
“You know I composed songs?” he asked.
Oops.
“I heard you wrote some stuff,” I replied casually, eating another bite of quiche.
Jake didn’t need to know about that one month I read five threads theorizing when he started writing “Lovely, Aren’t Ya” for Livie. Besides, that was just scientific research. Or looking up interesting fun facts. It didn’t mean anything. It was merely that I was born with an inquisitive nature and an endless thirst for knowledge, something that reflected in my valedictorian status, exemplary grades, and everyday life.
Or, at least, that’s what I wrote bar-for-bar in my scholarship application.
“Well, I did write a few songs,” Jake said, eyes dropping back to his phone. “But I still have to run nearly everything by my manager and her team. It has to get approved because of marketing and image and all that kind of stuff. I can’t do anything until they say so.”
I never considered that before. I assumed Jake had a lot more freedom. After all, his diving into a fountain—and other stunts he’d pulled—didn’tseemlike the actions of someone who had to run his choices by a team first.
Then again, maybe that’s why he acted out.
Or maybe that was not it at all.
I turned my attention back to problems I could actually solve. Maybe I could see which cats enjoyed being around Jake and they could be in the livestream, like how that one popular website had interviews where celebrities answered questions while playing with adoptable puppies and kittens.
“Hey, Jake,” I began, “if you’re okay with it, maybe we could—”
I cut myself off. Jake wasn’t listening.
He wasn’t texting either. Instead, he stared down at his cereal bowl with a fascinated expression, intently watching the rainbow-dyed rings dissolve and turn the milk into watercolor. One would think he was admiring a painting in the Louvre and not red dye number five in a bowl at a two-star motel.
“Jake?”
