“Did you go with your father, then?”
“Yeah,” she says. “And you know, it was better than I thought it would be. Got a little odd toward the end, but it was actually kind of fun.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“The only problem is, now Joe thinks I’m going to go on tour with him this summer.”
“This summer?” A pang of guilt hits me in the chest. Daphne may not ever see a summer again.
“Yeah, can you imagine? I can barely stand sharing a mansion with the guy; can you picture us in a tour bus? And his drummer is kind of a weirdo.” She pauses to take a breath. “But, hey, I’m guessing you haven’t checked your email yet. Considering you’re Sleeping Beauty and all.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. Anyway, check your email. I think I’ve found the perfect song for our duet. I sent you the music.”
“Give me a minute.” I open my email app. Other than the welcome packet that came from the school at the beginning of the year, her message is the only one in my in-box. I open the file she’s sent and peruse it, glad I’d used a YouTube video to learn how to read music since my first lesson with her. “This is good,” I say, imagining the sounds of the notes as I read them.
“It’s ‘Falling Slowly’ by Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová—from one of my favorite movies. It’s the first duet I thought of, but after looking at several others, I think it’s the best option.”
I read over the words. Imagining the lyrics with the notes evokes an uncertain, wanting ache in my chest. “It’s perfect.”
“It’s going to take a lot of practice,” she says. “Are you up for spending that much time with me over the next couple of weeks?”
“Yes,” I say.
At this moment, there’s nothing I want more.
chapter forty-two
DAPHNE
The next couple of weeks are pretty much a blur. Between homework, sitting in on a second round of auditions to help Joe and Mr. Morgan select the other principal roles for the spring musical—I make sure to put in a good word for Lexie for the role for Persephone, not only because of the truce we made, but because she actually deserves the part—and rehearsing with Haden every afternoon and lunch break, I am shocked when I realize that Thanksgiving is already upon us.
Thankfully, Joe decides not to cook Thanksgiving dinner himself, and instead, we join a couple of his bandmates for a private party at Bobby Rox’s restaurant. The food is divine, and to my surprise, I enjoy the company. Bobby and his wife, Elle, have the cutest daughter, and Chris Trip, the band’s bassist, has everyone in stitches over his impersonations of Mr. Fitzgerald, their overly chipper manager.
When Joe passes up the Thanksgiving champagne and opts for the cranberry juice mixed with Sprite concoction that I order for myself from the kitchen, Bobby slaps Joe on the back and says, “You’ve been a good influence on our ole boy here, Daphne!”
“Hear, hear!” agrees Chris. “I thought Joe could write his way out of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, but he’s even better sober. Those songs he’s writing for your school play are amazing.”
“They are good, aren’t they?” I say. The ones I’ve practiced with Tobin have blown me away.
Joe smiles down at his plate.
“Yeah,” Bobby says. “I haven’t seen that level of passion in your work since Shadow of a Star.”
“The band is thinking of recording an album of all the songs from the musical,” Chris says. “Oi, I know, Daphne should record one of the tracks with us!”
“Brilliant!” Joe says.
“What?” I say, almost spilling my fizzy cranberry juice.
“I love it,” Bobby says. “Joe showed us a couple of recordings he made during your class rehearsals the other day. You’re fantastic.”
I blush, pressing my lips together.
“What do you say, Daphne?” Joe asks. “At least one song. You can’t say no to an opportunity like that.”
“Won’t your manager have a cow?” I ask.
“Leave that to us,” Chris says, flexing his muscles. “We’ll strong-arm him into it.”
“Come on, Daph, say yes,” Joe implores.
Singing a song on a real live rock album? One that is almost guaranteed to go platinum? The idea both thrills me and terrifies me at the same time. But does Joe really want me on his album, or is this just another one of those promises he uses to make himself feel better?
If it were anyone else asking, I’d say yes in a heartbeat.
I think about what Lexie said about my being an idiot for not wanting Joe’s help. And then what Haden said about how I should give him another chance at being my father while I still have the opportunity.
“Okay,” I say, and the band cheers.
Later that night, as we say good-bye to everyone, Bobby’s wife, Elle, takes both Joe and me by the hand. “You’re a lucky man, Joe,” she says. “I can only hope our little Samara grows up to be like Daphne. She’s absolutely perfect.”