Page 46 of Until You Say Stay
I take another sip of wine to have something to do with my hands, which suddenly feel awkward and too big for my body. When did compliments from Jack start hitting me so differently than from anyone else? It’s like his words bypass all my normal defenses and land somewhere deeper, more vulnerable.
“So what were you working on?” he asks, nodding toward my guitar, his eyes brightening with interest. “When I interrupted?”
“Just a new song,” I say, trying to sound casual even though my pulse picks up. “It’s not ready yet. Still figuring out the bridge. It’s called ‘Magnolia Street.’ It’s about growing up and my mom teaching me piano.”
“Can I hear it?” he asks.
Oh no. “It’s really rough,” I warn, taking a big sip of wine for courage.
“Let’s hear it,” he says, leaning back into the couch cushions, making himself comfortable. He looks good here, in my cluttered apartment with its secondhand furniture and mismatched throw pillows.Toogood. Like he belongs. It doesdangerous things to my imagination, making me picture other nights like this, him bringing wine after work, talking for hours, staying until morning.
I pick up my guitar, take a deep breath, and start playing. The opening chords are gentle, nostalgic, pulling me back to childhood. I keep my eyes fixed on my fingers moving across the frets, not daring to look up, because I can feel Jack watching me. The weight of his gaze is a physical sensation against my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms.
The song builds as it goes, the melody swelling, and by the time I reach the final chorus, I’ve forgotten to be nervous. I’m just singing, letting the music flow through me the way it’s supposed to, the way it feels when everything clicks.
When I finish, there’s a moment of silence that stretches between us like a living thing. I finally look up at Jack, and the expression on his face steals my breath. He’s completely still, lips slightly parted, eyes dark and intent.
“That was beautiful,” he says. The timbre of it sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the air conditioning. “Really beautiful, Lark.”
“Thanks,” I say, suddenly shy under the intensity of his gaze. “It’s still a work in progress.”
“It’s perfect as it is,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice makes me believe him.
We look at each other for a moment too long, and I feel that same pull from the gazebo. That magnetic thing that keeps drawing me to him despite all the reasons I should stay away.
I set the guitar down carefully against the arm of the couch. “Do you want a glass of water? I never offered,” I say, making a desperate dash for the kitchen before he can even answer, needing space and air and approximately seventeen ice cubes down my shirt.
My phone dings in my pocket, and I pull it out to silence it. An email notification stares back at me. The sender name makes my heart stop completely.
Maya Stone, Tidal Records.
Oh my god.
My hands start shaking as I tap it open, my eyes skimming so fast I have to go back and reread to make sure I’m not having some kind of stress-induced hallucination brought on by wine and sexual frustration.
Lark,
I wanted to reach out following up on our call last week. We’ve been extremely impressed with your growing online presence. You really have created substantial buzz in exactly the demographics we’re targeting. The team here is very excited about the potential of working together.
We’re hosting a label party this Friday evening in Seattle at The Vine—mostly industry people, some press, very casual atmosphere. We’d love for you to attend if you’re available, and please feel free to bring Jack if you’re comfortable. It would be a great opportunity for you to meet some of our team in a relaxed setting.
Best,Maya
“OH MY GOD!” The scream bursts out of me before I can stop it. This is happening. The fake boyfriend plan isactuallyworking. I’m going to a label party. A LABEL PARTY. With industry people and press and everything I’ve been dreaming about since I was twelve years old writing terrible songs in my bedroom about boys who didn’t know I existed.
Suddenly Jack bursts into my tiny kitchen, eyes wild and scanning for immediate threats. “What?! Are you okay? What happened?”
“Tidal Records!” I’m waving my phone around like a flag of victory. “They emailed! They said they’re impressed withmy social media and they want me at their label party Friday in Seattle with industry people and press and this isactuallyhappening!”
Without thinking—because thinking has clearly abandoned me entirely—I launch myself at him, throwing my arms around his neck with enough force that he stumbles back a step.
His arms come around me immediately, catching me easily and lifting me straight off the ground. Which should probably be alarming but mostly just makes me acutely aware of how strong he is. How solid. How good he smells.
“This is real!” I’m practically squealing into his shoulder, clutching him tight enough that I’m probably cutting off his air supply.
“That’s incredible!” He’s laughing, and I can feel the vibration of it through his chest where I’m currently plastered against him like plastic wrap.
His firm chest. His very broad, very solid, very warm chest that smells like leather and wood and citrus. And I’m pressed against all of him, my feet dangling off the ground, his hands warm and strong where they’re holding me up. One hand spread across my back, the other gripping my waist, and I can feel every finger through my thin shirt.
