Love Song(39)

But Rosie keeps talking. “Yeah. I’m in town visiting Harriet, and we were talking about the night we all went cliff jumping on the island. Do you remember that?”

He nods absently. “Fun times.”

Her smile wavers for a second. “So fun.”

Wyatt’s not even looking at her as he finishes loading the groceries, and I feel a pang of sympathy for the woman.

“How’ve you been?” Rosie pushes.

“Good. You?”

“Great. Busy. But not too busy for, um, you know, seeing friends or whatever.” She stops, regrouping. “You know, if you wanted to hang out while I’m in town.”

Oh God. This is mortifying. It’s like watching a slow-motion train wreck. I edge toward the side of the Jeep, wishing I could melt into the pavement.

“Glad you’re doing well” is Wyatt’s response. He might as well have picked up a crossbow and shot an arrow into her heart.

Getting the message, Rosie flattens her lips and steps away. She flicks a frown in my direction, then stalks off, her sandals striking the asphalt with each quick step.

I wait until we’re inside the Jeep before glaring at him. “Did you have to be so cold?”

“Not cold,” he corrects. “Polite.”

“Dude, that was cold. She was crushed. Was that the same Rosie who…you know…the canoe crier?”

“Yup.” He starts the engine. “Trust me, I learned the hard way what happens when you encourage her. Even a friendly smile has her envisioning weddings and babies. So…boundaries.”

I suppose that makes sense, but I still feel awful for the girl. That rejection sucked.

And I can’t help putting myself in Rosie’s shoes, imagining what would’ve happened if I’d hooked up with Wyatt on Christmas Eve, only to have him look right through me the next day. The way he just looked at her.

I honestly don’t know if I would’ve survived that.

So maybe it’s better that I’ve never experienced…whatever it is that Wyatt gives these women. This magic dick he speaks of like it’s a curse.

Maybe it’s better if I never open that door.





Chapter 11


WYATT





IT’S ANOTHER GORGEOUS AFTERNOON. I sit on the dock, my phone resting on my shoulder as I listen to my manager drone on and on about a producer who’s supposedly desperate to get into the studio with me.

“Matt,” I interrupt, “I get you’re trying to sell me on him, but I checked out his stuff, and his style is completely different from mine. He works with boy bands.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you need to pivot.”

“I’m not joining a boy band.” The thought makes me chuckle as I envision myself dancing in sync with four other guys in matching denim overalls with no shirt or some shit.

“I wouldn’t even dream of suggesting it,” Matt says with a laugh of his own. “All I’m saying is… Maybe consider going the pop route.”

Why is everyone trying to turn me into a goddamn pop star?

“I’m not a pop artist.”

“But you could be,” he says.

“But I don’t want to be.”

“Wyatt.”

His tone tells me I’m about to be lectured about “the reality of the music biz.”

“The reality of the music biz,” he continues, “is that those who don’t adapt die. So you can toil away for years, chasing your artistic vision and trying to stay pure to it, or you can make a sacrifice to get your foot in the door. Write a song you know will be popular, something that appeals to the masses, and then for your second album? Do whatever tickles your creative fancy.”

“Or I get pigeonholed into whatever sellout nonsense I put in the first album,” I counter. “Then that becomes my style, and I blow up and get stuck churning out pop songs for the rest of my life.”

“Oh no,” he says sarcastically. “You blow up and become a big star.”

Frustration tightens my throat. He doesn’t get it. Nobody does. They think I’m just being a fucking diva. That I’m too stubborn to “adapt” or too pretentious to write pop music.

But that isn’t it. It’s not that I don’t want to write it—it’s that I can’t write it. The last time I tried writing a bubblegum pop song, I stared at a blank page for days. Sure, I know a few songwriters in Nashville who could probably write me some killer pop tracks, but… I guess this is where my diva side crops up. Because I don’t want to sing prepackaged songs that someone else hands me. I want to compose my own music.

“Look, Wyatt, I love the whole angsty, folksy-rock, singer-songwriter vibe you’ve got going on. But it’s clearly not working for us. If you consider singing something more mainstream, there’d be no shortage of producers willing to team up with you. Tobey Dodson, to name one. He’d work with you in a heartbeat—”

“Why in a heartbeat?” I cut in suspiciously.

“Well, he was talking to your mother—”

“No.”

“Wyatt—”

“I said no.”

“Why not, damn it? Christ, kid. I’ve never seen anybody fight the nepo baby label as hard as you.”