Page 52

Tim:
And this is why I’m so cheery today. As you were.
Against all good judgment, I do something I’ve managed not to do for three days. I open Instagram. And after reading some posts, I wish I hadn’t.
Someone snapped a photo of me and Gage at the bar on Tuesday and posted it last night. Why they waited three days to post it is anyone’s guess, but my brain takes all of one second to twist the timing of it into being part of some bigger plot. Because that’s what this entire week feels like: one big plot against me.
The three days since that photo was taken have felt like a demolition of everything I’ve built in my career. After theVelocity Reigncontract was pulled, other projects started slipping through my fingers. Suddenly, I’m receiving emails with words like “we need more time before moving forward”, and “we need to pause the current direction.” No one’s saying it, but it feels like I’m being quietly blacklisted.
I’m five minutes into my Instagram scrolling when a text comes through from my publicist.
Marin:
Babes. What’s the go with Gage Black?
My agent brought Marin in the morning the story broke. She’s young, terrifyingly upbeat, calls mebabes, ends half her sentences with sparkle emojis, and seems alarmingly unfazed watching my life implode.
And great question, Marin. I’d like to know the answer to it also.
Gage cooked me dinner on Wednesday night. Not fish. Not lamb. But steak with sautéed broccolini and roasted potatoes. It was, frankly, the best thing I’ve eaten all week. And I may or may not have cursed the Universe while eating it because apparently the man is not only hot and emotionally aware, but he can cook too.
The girls loved the four of us having dinner again and happily chatted about all the things that happened that day at school. After we ate, they played in Luna’s bedroom while Gage and I cleaned up. He kept it light between us and didn’t broach the subject of dating again. Instead, he asked me about my work and how I became a composer. We also went over some things for the science fair.
Since then, we’ve texted a few times. Mostly about the science fair, solving problems as they popped up. Nothing deep. Nothing that even came close to touching on the heat that’s been simmering between us. The heat thatIcan’t stop thinking about.
The fact he’s now living rent free in my head is deeply inconvenient for my emotional stability and productivity levels. Every time my phone buzzes, I want it to be him. And when it’s not, I reread his last text like it holds the answers to life, the universe, and whatever this is between us.
He pushed things between us three days ago and hasn’t made a single move since. Which means I’m now obsessing over a man who’s either giving me space or has quietly changed his mind. And I can’t decide which option I prefer.
I tap out a text to Marin.
Me:
There’s nothing happening between us.
Marin:
That’s not what that photo looked like. I need an angle.
I swear she talks in another language.
Me:
An angle?
Marin:
Yeah, give me something to go on.
Me:
There’s nothing to go on.
Marin:
Okay, let me bring you up to speed, babes. Comment sections on Tiktok have turned into war zones. One half thinks you’re the villain who stole music and seduced a billionaire to clean up the mess. The other half thinks you’re a misunderstood artist who soft-launched a zaddy to distract from the scandal. I need to know which one to run with.
A zaddy? Does she not know I’m a single mom who spends her days packing school lunches, googling how to get slime out of a rug, trying to remember if I already RSVP’d to the school field trip, and barely has time to shave both legs at the same time? I know some slang. I’m not completely out of touch. But my brain only has space for about five pieces of Influencer Speak, and “zaddy” isn’t one of them.