Maybe Once, Maybe Twice(46)

I leaned back into the leather booth, holding my stomach, my body swirling with red wine and house-made agnolotti, my eyes darting away from his strong gaze.

“So…” He brushed his hand over his chin, then strummed his fingers on the table. “How’s your love life?” he asked, rather uncasually.

Garrett’s lips flashed in front of my face—just briefly, but briefly enough to show my hand, to illustrate that my love life was a garbage fire.

“That good, huh?” Asher said, taking in my expression.

“Yours?”

Asher shook his head, indicating it was nonexistent.

“You know, my longest relationship ended when I was a teenager,” he mused with a shy grin.

“Join the club,” I said.

I picked up the script between us, twirling a gold brad in my fingers. He squinted, trying to discern my messy penmanship on the back of the script.

“‘See You if I Get There’…”

“Just an idea for the first track.”

“Punchy title,” he said, smiling. “Speaking of, did your lawyer connect with mine?”

“Yeah, she forwarded me the contract, and she’s redlining a few items, but otherwise said we can close on the big terms. I think she was supposed to be letting your guy know as we speak. Shelly said the contract was ‘unexpectedly fair.’”

“Why, thank you,” he said, taking a bow with his hand. “Just don’t get used to that. Contracts, business affairs, lawyers, negotiations—usually takes months.”

“So why didn’t it?”

“Because we don’t have time to go back and forth—I’d like to get this shooting in two months. As soon as you’re ready, let’s lay down your demo for ‘Up North.’”

“Oh, I can record it in my mom’s closet.”

Asher frowned. “Don’t be silly. My friend owns a studio. He’ll let us record there.”

“That’s really not necessary.”

“Mags, it is,” Asher said. He leaned in, eyes wide on mine. “Let’s make this as beautiful and rich as possible. I want the demo to knock everyone out of their chairs, even if it’s going to get re-recorded by another voice. I want the studio to know what they’re getting with you, and I need to show our actress how high that bar is.”

“O-okay,” I said, stammering.

He tilted his neck at me. “Are you okay?”

I swallowed hard, realizing my face had fallen. I picked it up and smiled. The truth—that I hadn’t been inside a studio in five years—was stinging from all sides. I didn’t know what would happen when I walked inside studio doors, but based on the heart palpitations taking over my body, I was terrified that it might not be as easy as one, two, three.

“Yeah, I’m good. It’s just”—I pointed to my brain—“there’s a lot happening right now.”

“Nice to see some things haven’t changed,” he said with a smile. He shifted in his seat, twisting the napkin in his lap, eyes on me. “Why do you have your dad’s guitar, Mags?”

Asher waited for the answer, eyes unblinking, as if he already knew. I felt the tears building, and I peered up to the ceiling, willing them away. I’d rarely tempered my emotions in front of Asher before, but we were in a public place, and I was worried that if I started to unravel in front of him, I might never stop.

“Heart attack.” I let my eyes come back toward Asher.

“When?” he asked, so softly that I swear I just heard him mouth the word.

“Two weeks after we broke up.”

He didn’t even say “I’m sorry.” That, he mouthed. I could see the tears in his eyes, and I looked away from him, my chest threatening to cave in.

“I wish I could have been there for you.”

His hand gripped mine, and instantly, tears jolted onto my cheeks.

“I should have been there,” I heard him whisper.

I glanced back at Asher, tears swimming in his eyes.

After a few heartbeats, I realized my hand was still in his, and he looked down as our fingers parted.

I focused on a deep breath, in and out, a technique from my therapist, my attention fixed on a man and woman a few tables in front of us. The woman folded a cloth napkin in her lap, eyes out the window, watching the cars fly by. Her date dangled a forkful of his chocolate cake in front of her mouth with a grin. She tore her eyes away from the cars to take a bite of the cake and painted on a smile.

“What do you think’s happening there?” I asked.

Asher tilted his head, studying the couple.

“She’s about to break his heart,” he said.

I swallowed down a throat full of tears, grateful to study someone else’s misery.

“You think?”

“She’s slow dancing around it,” he decided, coming back to me with a gentle smile.

I had always loved the way Asher looked at the world. He once picked up a geode by the lake, squeezed it in his fist, and imagined an entire backstory for the rock. I was reminded of the time I visited him in San Diego after our second summer at camp. He had just gotten his license, and I remembered watching him in the driver’s seat—the way his fingers carefully gripped the wheel, the way his amber eyes paused to take in the rocky cliffside, the way he smiled wistfully at an elderly couple sharing a sandwich on a bench, the way he looked at me to make sure I saw it, too: the promise of growing old together.