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My stomach twists with a torrent of mixed emotions. Somehow that makes this situation better and worse at the same time.

Footsteps draw our attention, and Callie reemerges with a terribly executed fake smile plastered to her face.

“Sorry, guys! Just realized I had grabbed the wrong book. Got it now.” She holds up her notebook, and we pretend that wasn’t a flat-out lie. I’m just relieved she’s changed her mind about sharing with us.

“You’re back,” she says to Luke as she joins us on the couch.

His easy smile jars me for a second. No one gets those anymore. “You know me. Just have to pout for a while, then I’m good.”

He waves toward the notebook she’s clutching to her chest.

“So Casey says you’re finally going to let us see some of this mysterious poetry. Gotta say I’m jealous that I couldn’t get a look after a month, and this loser got in after a day, but whatever. Let’s see it.”

She passes another deer-in-the-headlights look between us before staring down at her journal.

With tentative fingers, she pages through it slowly. Her other hand has the cover in a vise grip. For several seconds, I’m afraid she’s going to change her mind and flee again.

“I told Casey this is my private book. Ideas mainly. I clean them up and do the actual writing on my computer.” It comes out like an apology, which only annoys me. No one should ever apologize for their private art.

Besides, it’s not like Luke and I don’t understand the creative process. Does she think we poop out chart-topping hits? No. Every masterpiece was once a brain fart.

But I try to be sympathetic at how hard this must be for her. If you’ve never shared your work before, handing it over to be critiqued by Luke Craven and Casey Barrett of Night Shifts Black is probably not your first choice for a debut.

The thing is, we’re not what she thinks. We’re people too. Artists who worked our asses off to get where we are and who have the ability to meet other artists where they’re at. In some ways it’s easier for us because we’ve been there.

She stops on a specific page. Her jaw clenches as she skims the words, and I can almost see the moment she decides to let us in.

She looks up and scans us in another quick evaluation. I’m more than a little surprised when she chooses to hand the notebook to me instead of Luke. I thought for sure now that he wasback in the picture, I’d be taking my place as Fourth Chair again.

I take the journal and reverently stare down at the words.

My breath catches. No fucking way.

Fractured images crash in again.

“This isn’t you, Luke!”

“You don’t think I know the monster I see in the mirror every damn day?!”

“Exactly! That ‘monster’ you’re seeing isn’tyou!It’s a distortion! A lie your brain is telling you. Just like Elena?—”

“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t you dare go there. Not now. Not ever.”

I smother the rest of the memory when my throat closes up. The more I read, the more my heart twists into my stomach.

Every word. Every image. God, it’s exactly what I was trying to explain to Luke that day, but couldn’t. I couldn’t find the words in that moment, but this woman—this virtual stranger—found them hundreds of miles away.

“Holy shit,” I breathe out.

I skim her face in amazement before landing my focus on Luke. Maybe he’ll finally hear what I’ve been trying to say if it comes from her. If it comes likethis.

“Listen to this,” I say.

“Mirror mirror, what do you see, when you look at me

Mirror mirror, what are you thinking, I see those eyes staring

Mirror mirror, what are you saying, it’s always something I believe