Page 41 of The Ex-Best Thing
“Probably because it is.”
“That doesn’t help.” She drops her head in her hands and rubs her temples. “Should we see how badly America hates me right now? Maybe this isn’t worth the effort.”
I strum a few times, watching her spiral. “So let’s talk about effort. You wrote a song in anger, gave it to your label, sang, produced it, prepared the album art and media splash, and then…ran away?”
“Not exactly.” Bree slides her sunglasses on to fight the warm sun and leans back against the navy cushion, pushing us gently with her toes again. “I wrote it in anger, yes. Jaida betrayed me. It hurt. I wrote to get my feelings out, and thesong was good. When my label wanted it, I felt justified. Like, maybe now the world will see what she’s really like.” She stops. “You don’t know her, Benny. She’ll climb on anyone’s back to make herself taller. I wanted to knock her down a peg. By the time I realized how bad the song really was, it was too late to stop it.”
I nod along. I’d picked up this much already. “Why are you ignoring your family, then?”
“Because I’m embarrassed,” she says quietly.
It shouldn’t, maybe, but it squeezes my heart. She’s definitely in the wrong here, but she knows it. I find myself feeling forgiveness toward her again. “Maybe you should call your mom.”
“She approved the song,” Bree says.
“Your brother? Or Olive?”
She peers up at me. “I’m embarrassed, Benny. I’m surprisedyouare even speaking to me.”
“Well, I forgave you.”
“For being mean to Jaida?”
I hold her gaze for a beat. “For making a mistake.”
She blinks at me. “But it wasn’t against you.”
“So I can’t offer you grace?”
“You can,” she hedges.
Inspiration hits me in a sudden, overwhelming wave, like it often does when I’m thinking about Bree, or watching her TV show, or scrolling her Instagram feed like a lonely stalker. I know the song we need to write. It’s in my head like an anthem, so loud I don’t know how I didn’t hear it before.
“I’ve got it,” I say, strumming on my guitar, the words forming in my head like bright pops of fireworks. I hum along, forming the melody while the words find their proper order.
“That’s good,” she says quietly. “Catchy.”
Her voice gives me a burst of emotion, and the words comeout. “You owe me nothing, but I was wrong. Grace comes along. I’ve done you wrong.”
I glance at her for approval, and she’s bobbing her head along, her brown eyes like deep pools of chocolate I want to swim in. My fingers keep strumming, but we’re stuck in this heavy eye contact like a whirlpool. We’re tethered, the music creating a soft cocoon, and I don’t want to lose the moment or the feelings or any of the words we’ve come up with. But I’m frozen, my hand strumming the same thing over and over again.
Bree begins to hum, so I start over, singing the words again, tweaking the order, shifting the melody, moving all the pieces around like a puzzle in my head until I find the perfect combination.
We work together for the next few hours, each adding lines and moving parts while we’re vibing in our own little world. Bree writes a killer bridge, and we create a harmony. It sounds nothing like what we started with—it’s ten times better. The song is great as a duet, but we can record Bree singing both parts and layer them, see if it works. It’s one of those rare times when I can feel deep in the marrow of my bones that this song is going to be a hit. Canceled or not, the world is going to eat it up.
This is collaboration vibe magic at work.
Sunlight fades until we’re forced to go inside and turn the lights on. Colby’s home is a mix of old and new, the worn sofa and modern TV stand making the room comfortable and familiar and homey. Lacey window coverings remind me of his mom, but the beautiful framed photographs on the walls remind me of him. I’m deep in the euphoria of a successful writing session and utterly drained at the same time.
Judging by Bree’s slouched position on the sofa beside me, she feels the same. She leans back on the headrest. “I feel like I ran five miles.”
“All the exhaustion and none of the burned calories. Soundsunfair,” I say, reaching over to rub the knots from her shoulder. “Should we have dinner?”
“Yes.” She closes her eyes, leaning forward to give me better access. “My brain needs a break. Want cereal?”
“Maybe for dessert.” I put my guitar aside and go to the kitchen to see what I can scrounge up to eat. Our options are pretty much fruit or cereal. There are a few other things, but nothing that sounds like a filling dinner. I can’t have salami and crackers and call that a meal. “Come on. Put your shoes on, and we can go to my house.”
“If you’re sure.”
