My thigh.
My breathing quickened and I clenched my eyes shut, my chest growing hot, my mind boomeranging back to two weeks ago, when Cole Wyan’s hand had been right there, right on the soft spot of my skin. His hand gliding up my body. An intruder in my home.
“Maggie?” I heard Garrett ask. I felt his hand leave my thigh.
“I should—I should go,” I said quickly, eyes still shut, body frozen.
“Did I do something?”
I swallowed hard and blinked my eyes on Garrett’s hurt face. His hand was on my arm, his eyes were wide, searching for an answer.
“Garrett, I’m not in a good place right now—not for this.”
He scrunched up his face.
“Okay. But…then why did you say what you said? That you wanted us to end up together?” he asked, baffled, maybe even a little stung.
I searched for words amid the sound of my heart pounding in my ears.
“I meant what I asked you. I meant it. I just—I can’t be with anyone right now.”
I edged my body off the stool, but my legs were numb, and I felt my chest dropping to the floor. Garrett caught my side with one strong arm, quickly steadying my body against his. He put his hand around my waist, looking at me, panicked. I’d never seen him look at someone like this before. I darted from his view, focusing on my shaking hands.
“Let’s get you home, okay?” he asked quietly.
I felt tears in my throat as I nodded.
I was in pieces, with no instructions on how to glue myself back together. My hopes, my dreams, my body—broken. Three weeks ago, Garrett saying he wanted to start a life with me would have gone down as some of the greatest seconds of my life. And today, my body and my mind wouldn’t let me go anywhere near bliss. My happiness was frozen behind a moment of terror.
Garrett took me home instantly, made sure I got under the covers, and left me Advil and water by my bedside. He watched me for a long moment, and right before he left, I could see his expression out of the corner of my eyes. He was bathed in confusion.
I stared at the ceiling, limbs shaking until the sun rose. And I did it again the next day. And the next.
46
THIRTY-FIVE
FOR AN ENTIRE WEEK AFTER my encounter with Cole at Carbone, I crushed a Xanax between my teeth every night, quieting my racing mind. It had been a full seven days, and Cole hadn’t touched my future or called Asher to warn him that I had a mean right hook.
I exhaled, letting the sun bathe my freckled shoulders as I walked up West Thirtieth Street. It was time to let that encounter go, and starting today, I would carve my own path—or that was what I was saying to the sky, during my morning mantra. I told myself I had merely seen a ghost at Carbone—one that no longer posed a threat. I adjusted Asher’s aviators over my eyes—large frames that didn’t fit my narrow bone structure, but dulled the paparazzi camera flashes. His shades also hid the fact that I refused to apply makeup before an aggressive amount of caffeine was coursing through my blood. The glasses quieted the online trolls who expected all celebrity girlfriends to roll out of bed with contoured faces.
There was a wide grin on my face as I ducked my head down past a stray paparazzo, fingers pinching my AirPods farther into my eardrums. My homemade demo, “Full Circle,” lit up the street with an ethereal, folksy sound—a sound that was about to get the studio-produced treatment. In a handful of hours, I was set to record the track, my very first single, in Bex’s studio.
I felt my phone vibrate in my fanny pack as I flew inside my favorite coffee shop, inhaling caffeine and fresh blueberry scones—a combination that my body desperately needed. While the paparazzi had discovered my morning routine, there was no “money shot” if Asher wasn’t in the frame. Thankfully, my solo presence made the paparazzi scatter once I was inside, leaving me to order an oat milk latte in peace.
I sucked in the caffeinated air, calming my anxiety. I had been expecting a phone call from Shelly ever since Asher and I took our relationship public at Carbone. His arm was tight around my waist when we left the restaurant later that night, his hand holding me in a completely intimate way, leaving nothing left to wonder about the state of our relationship. While I had waited until after the money went into my bank account and for all the songs to be turned in before I took our relationship public, I knew that Shelly probably would have preferred we wait a bit longer, or at least give her a heads-up.
“Hi,” I said into the phone as I shuffled to the back of the obnoxiously long line. There were a few head turns, likely people trying to figure out why a nondescript, tiny woman wearing a pink fanny pack and a Nap Dress was being followed by flashing lights.
“So, remember that time I asked you if you had any demos floating around, and you said no?” Shelly asked.
“Yeah…”
“Well, I just got off the phone with Cole Wyan’s manager, and it would appear that you not only have a demo floating around, you have a Cole Wyan–produced demo. And the world’s about to hear it. So, I’d like to know why you straight-up lied to me.”
My heart rate quickened, and my hands started to shake.
“Hold—hold on for a second,” I said, wide-eyed and stammering.
I tugged my body out of the line, walking back outside the coffee shop. I darted across a break in traffic, and ducked past the doorman, running into Asher’s building. Heart pounding in my ears, I exhaled as my body found a leather chair in a windowless, private corner of the opulent lobby.
“Maggie? Are you still there?”
I tugged my AirPods out of my ear and threw them in my fanny pack, grabbing my phone and pressing it up to my mouth.
“Can he do that? Can he just release the song, whenever he wants?” I whispered.
“You signed a release. I’m staring at it right now.”
“But that was…that was over five years ago. I signed something five years ago—”
“Unfortunately, you signed it in perpetuity. Cole could release your song in twenty years if he wanted to. Look, obviously this guy found out you were about to become a success, he’s seen you online, he learned you were doing the original music for Asher Reyes’s buzzy film, and most significantly—he heard that you were recording with Fin Bex. Cole feels the need to engage in some sort of pissing contest with Bex at every turn—as Bex’s producing career has eclipsed his.”
I tucked my knees into my chest, holding my body to keep from falling apart in public.
“Cole’s going to take credit for my career, isn’t he? He’s going to get to profit off me, forever?”
I already knew the answer. Angry, hot liquid masked my vision.
“Yes, to both of those questions,” Shelly confirmed.
In the fairy tale, the villain doesn’t profit off the underdog until her dying day. The villain doesn’t get to take credit for discovering the underdog. The villain doesn’t loom large until the underdog draws her last breath. But now, my villain would get to do exactly that.
“When’s he releasing the song?”
“It’s Friday, Maggie.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means check your Spotify. Apple Music. It came out at midnight. Across all platforms.”
I went silent. I couldn’t bring myself to even move a finger.
“Do you want to tell me why you kept this from me?” Shelly asked.
I opened my mouth to explain, but shock strangled my throat.