Love Song(123)

I’m on campus now. I can be there in five.



BEAU

See you soon.



I meet him at the campus coffee shop. He’s in a white T-shirt and track pants with a backpack slung over his broad shoulder, his blond hair swept away from his forehead, emphasizing his gorgeous features. He’s as handsome as ever, commanding attention from every person in our vicinity, male and female.

“Hey.” Beau greets me with a hug, frowning when he releases me. “Why do you look so thin?”

I shrug. “I’m on a diet.” Truth is I’ve barely had an appetite. First with all the morning sickness and then the depression.

“You don’t need to be on a diet.” His frown deepens as we approach the order counter. “You don’t look good.”

“Thanks,” I say dryly.

“No, I mean… Have you been sick?”

Realizing he’s not going to drop it, I lie and say I had the flu at the end of the summer and I’m only bouncing back from it now. Beau blessedly accepts the explanation, and we grab our coffees and find a table in the back of the crowded room.

Beau kicks out a chair and sits, thrusting his long legs out in front of him. He’s still watching me, his wry smile telling me he didn’t buy the flu story.

“It’s okay to admit it’s a broken heart diet.”

I’ve been so numb lately that I’ve mastered the art of showing no reaction. I don’t even blink at the teasing accusation. “What do you mean?” I play dumb.

He shrugs. “You and Wyatt ended it. You’re allowed to be upset about that. You doing okay?”

I shrug back. “I’m fine. I knew it was going to happen.”

“That he would break your heart?”

“He didn’t break my heart,” I reply. I broke his. “Wyatt and I both agreed that when the summer ended, so would our fling. And that’s what happened.” I casually sip my coffee. “How’s the semester going so far?”

“All good. Classes are fine.”

“And AJ?” I prompt.

Beau’s expression dampens. “Not good.”

Last I heard from our girls’ chat, AJ still refuses to accept Beau’s apology. They haven’t spoken since July, and we’re nearing the end of September.

“Why haven’t you fixed this?” I ask.

“He doesn’t want to fix it. He’s done.”

“He’s not done. You guys have been friends since you were in the womb.”

“He’s done, B.” Beau takes a quick sip. “We went out for beers the other night—”

I perk up. “See, that doesn’t feel done.”

“—and he told me to stop contacting him,” Beau finishes.

“Oh.”

“Said he’ll never forgive me and that a real friend wouldn’t do what I did. Called me a piece of shit and said that no years of friendship could make him look at me like I wasn’t a piece of shit.”

“Oh. Wow. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too.”

I can’t imagine the Golden Boys not being the Golden Boys. Especially considering they’re teammates. “What about hockey? How’s that going to work?”

“No fucking clue. We started practice this week. We’re not on the same line, so that’s good at least, but it’s rough. He just treats me like any other teammate. And if it’s not about hockey, he looks right through me. We’ll see how it goes.” Beau lets out a sigh. “Coach Jensen has picked up on the tension, but he doesn’t get involved unless it affects gameplay. So far, it hasn’t. But yeah, to answer your question, I can’t fix it because it’s unfixable.”

I get that.

That’s how I feel right now.

Unfixable.





Chapter 50


WYATT





AT THE END OF SEPTEMBER, I tag along to Manhattan with my mother. She’s working at the studio for a few days, and I’m meeting with Tobey, who’d been delayed these past few weeks. He loved the songs I sent him, though, so it’s official: I’m cutting an album with Tobey fuckin’ Dodson. Our meeting to talk logistics isn’t for another two days, so I hang around the studio while my mom dons her producer hat.

She’s working with a kid named Frankie Stephens, a baby-faced soul singer from Philly whose label asked my mom to write and produce a track for him.

The control booth is dim save for the glow of the LED meters. Mom leans forward in her chair, one hand on the mixing console, the other cupping a pair of headphones.

“All right, let’s roll it back five seconds.” When her sound guy twists a dial, she says, “No, right before he hits that note.”

I love seeing her in work mode. It’s so cool.

Beyond the glass, Frankie waits patiently, looking happy just to be there. And of course he is. He’s on the brink of his big break. His whole musical life ahead of him. I feel like I’m on that same precipice.

Mom shakes her head. “Shit.” She plays the track back, letting it run for a few seconds. “Yeah. I think we picked up some room slap from the monitor bleed. We’ll need to run it again, clean.”

Wilmer, the sound guy, nods. “You got it, Hannah.”