Page 167 of Shy Girls Can't Date Celebrities
I shake my head, placing the journal on the bed cover. “No. You Circle 8 kids always collaborate. That’s what this duet is. A collaboration. Mutually beneficial.”
Wyatt’s lip upturns. “I guess that’s a better spin on it.”
“Portia genuinely seems excited to be singing with you.”
Wyatt shrugs. “Yeah.”
“And everyone lit up back at the hotel when you two sang together. You need to stay positive about this opportunity.”
“The me-I-don’t-remember really wanted to record this duet with her,” Wyatt says tentatively. “Like, this is my last big shot at making my music work.”
I squeeze his shoulder. “Remember the fun we had last night, working on the lyrics? You’ve gotta focus on that energy when you gointo the recording booth.”
Wyatt presses a hand into his stomach, his expression growing queasy. “Okay. We’d better get downstairs and back in the car.”
I brighten, hoping his mood is lifted. I can’t leave him slumping into anxiety. “You’re okay, right?”
He nods, forcing a smile. “I can play the guitar, and I can sing. Everything has to be okay.”
I help him down the stairs, my confidence in his words at an all-time low.
Twenty-Six
Wyatt and I hold hands for the ten-minute drive over to the recording studio. We’re shown inside, and Wyatt is ushered forward and introduced to a music producer. Portia stands by his side, and the management team surrounds them.
I edge backwards, feeling claustrophobic in the small space. Behind me are two couches, and Randall stands in the corner, staring at his phone. I fold my arms, tapping my elbows with awkwardness.
As I take note of everyone crowding the space, I clear my throat and ask Randall, “Where’s Jenna?”
Randall barely looks up from his phone. “She’ll be around later. Apparently she had something important to take care of.”
Dang it. If I could sit next to her, I might feel less on edge.
Wyatt and Portia are shown into the recording booth. It has a glass wall so we can watch them perform. Wyatt’s given the guitar he had in the penthouse back at Cherry Beach.
“You’ve played so many live performances with this guitar,” Erika tells him. “We’re getting the real you back.”
The comment makes me feel beyond icky. However, I plaster a smile on my face for Wyatt’s sake.
I wall-hug as Wyatt and Portia begin the song. Wyatt doesn’t miss a beat with the guitar, but there’s apprehension in voice as he sings. Ugh. He can’t try the new lyrics. I don’t blame him. It would be daunting, having everyone stare at him like he’s a zoo animal.
I watch Portia tackle the bridge, and she sounds a little rusty. No doubt struggling with jet lag and burnout from her European trip. Wyatt’s voice melds with her, and soon, tingles race down my back.
Oh my gosh, he’s doing it. He’s singing the words I wrote.
I glance around at everyone watching, waiting for them to lean forward in wonder.
I swallow hard, only spotting confusion everywhere I turn. My heart leaps into my throat as I spy Portia in the booth. She continues to sing her lines, but her eyes slit as Wyatt’s words take her off guard.
“Wait, Wyatt,” the producer says, tugging at his headphones. “What was that?”
Wyatt fumbles with his guitar and says into the microphone, “Umm, the song?”
The producer snaps his fingers. “Someone get him the right lyrics. The boy keeps forgetting things.”
Wyatt lifts a hand. “No, it’s not like that. I changed the lyrics.”
Erika leans over the producer’s shoulder. “Wyatt, hon. This isn’t a time for improv. We’ve gotta get this in the can.”
