Page 4

I don’t have the energy for another tour, and if I’m being honest, I never had it for this one. I’ve run on fumes ever since I caught the eye of the music scout. Vance Records literally owns me. Every cent, song, second of my day is theirs.

Half a dozen people follow me as I turn on my heel, fussing and tugging like a toddler who can’t be trusted alone.

Christ, when was the last time I had a moment to myself? To breathe? To use the toilet without someone waiting outside?

I make it onto the bus, shove in my headphones, and snap the privacy curtain shut. The paper-thin mattress offers some comfort as my six-foot frame falls backward. A heaviness pushes down on me, as if spinning around in space. The G-force pulls everything taut.

Nothing compared to the weight strapped around my left wrist.

My arm stays pinned to the bed.

If I look at it, I’ll be reminded of all the time we’ve spent apart.

I should take my epilepsy meds. Text my mom. Take a shower.

All I want to do is call her. To hear the twang she tries so hard to hide, especially when she’s talking to clients. There’s so much I need to say—to apologize for, but those words aren’t meant for over the phone. They need to be spoken in person. I just have to ride out the next eleven months until my contract is up.

We made a promise, but I made a hundred more long before I left her standing on the lawn of that big, stupid house.

A deep sigh flies past my lips.

Patient. I have to be patient.

It’s simpler to control the wind than to predict how things will unravel when I eventually drag my ass back to Iris Meadows.

But what if she isn’t waiting?

My body tenses at the thought.

No. Impossible.

I agreed—reluctantly—to give her the space she needed, but like the record deal contract, I didn’t read the fine print before agreeing. Two whole years. She wants me gone for two whole years, only to return when this is all over.

I raise my arm and stare at the beat-up wristwatch. The strap is a gust of wind away from snapping. The hands probably don’t have a tick left in them, but considering they’re frozen in time, we’ll never know. I never plan on restarting it.

I’ll do what I need to do to fulfill my contractual obligations, and then I’m done. Two years of fame and stardom are enough. The truth: my heart hasn’t been in this business for a while. Pretty difficult when I left it with a redhead in Iris Meadows.

I tap the face of the watch three times. “Wait for me, baby.”

TWO

TALIA

Thirty-four windows.

Thirty-four goddamn windows in this big, stupid house. Eight of which I’m too short to reach. As if the square footage wasn’t ridiculous enough, the smudges on the glass panes are, well, a pain.

Don’t get me wrong, the architecture of the Tudor revival house is beautiful, with its half-timbered walls, a chimney that kisses the clouds, and striking red-brick exterior. It’s most people’s dream home and by far the grandest in Iris Meadows. That’s the problem. It might be pinned to most people’s Pinterest boards, but not mine.

The previous mayor lived here last, passed down from generations before that. Its grandeur makes it stick out like a sore thumb among the quaint homes dotted around the area. I don’t need six bedrooms, three and a half bathrooms, a kitchen the size of a football field, and a pantry bigger than my childhood bedroom. The driveway is large enough to fit four cars. Right now, there sits my brand-new Toyota Tundra Capstone, a gas-guzzling beast of a truck I hate to drive, and Tate’s beat-up Ford pickup. Though, I guess it’s more mine now. He hasn’t been here to drive it.

I’m well aware of how ungrateful I’m being, but it’s more than just the size and my difference in taste. It’s what this house and the truck stand for. Pieces of Scotch Tape on a crumbling stone wall. A last-ditch attempt at fixing something I fear is beyond repair.

Huffing, I fling a rag at the circular window over the front door. It flops against the wall before falling back down to the monochrome tiled floor, fluttering like a white flag of defeat.

Every other weekend, I attempt to deep clean the house until it’s spotless, but I only have so much time and patience before I give up, even if the fingerprints above the front door make my eye twitch.

How the fuck are there fingerprints up there?