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Neither Nora nor I are exactly the type of people who love being center stage—but unlike me, Nora never did. She’s so quiet, people are constantly telling her to speak up. I’m no church mouse, but unless someone’s going after a person I care about or I lose my temper, I’d rather not have a whole room of people—let alone a whole cable TV audience—acknowledging my existence the way I once thought I would.

NORA: Anyway, Eli promised you wouldn’t have to make any onscreen appearances, right?

REESE: Eli’s broken his promises before.

I hate sounding so bitter. And really, it’s not Eli’s fault my life isn’t anywhere near where I thought it would be by now.

But it is his fault I have to confront all this head-on.

NORA: It’s okay to be pissed at him still. He did you dirty. And I’m serious, Reese. If you change your mind about making onscreen appearances, you’d be great. Sinéad, remember?

I cringe. “Oh God,” I say out loud. We may have indulged in a bit too much wine when we were hanging out. No, we did have too much wine. I know because I sent her this clip I still have in my email my sister filmed of me ten years ago, on stage, back when I used to perform in tiny clubs in New York. In the video, I sang this super depressing song by Sinéad O’Connor. “The Last Day of Our Acquaintance”—a song about divorce.

I think I knew I was severing myself from my dreams.

Nora’s jaw had dropped. “You’reincredible.”

I run my thumb over the inside of my wrist now, glancing briefly at the dark strokes of ink there.

By the end of that video, Nora and I were both crying.

It was probably the wine.

REESE: I still can’t believe I showed you that.

NORA: I’m honored.

For a moment, I think of that song. Even with Dylan playing, I mouth the words, my eyes closed.

I hear a knock on my door.

Sophie. I reach back and grab my phone to turn the music down.

But when I turn back, it’s not my front of house manager who stands in my doorway.

It’s a big handsome man with a flop of brown hair and dark scruff who still makes my stomach flip.

Hard.

“Eli,” I say, voice stiff.

CHAPTER2

Eli

TRACK:Bob Seger, “Still the Same”

Ibarely manage to whip my eyes back up to meet Reese’s before she turns back to face me. And thank Christ, because if Reese Franco caught me checking out the way her shirt lifted up when she did that twisty thing, exposing the thinnest strip of bare skin above the hem of her pants and pushing out that one beautiful curve of side-boob, I know she’d give me hell.

More likely, she’d scream at me to get the hell out of her office.

Even though it’s not that flash of skin that has me frozen. It’s the moment before, when I opened the door, right before she turned and adjusted the music. She’d been singing.

No, not singing. Mouthing the words.

But she doesn’t have that beautiful, pained expression on her face anymore. She’s staring at me, a little line between her eyebrows indicating she’s pissed.

I clear my throat. “Hey, Reese.”