Page 12 of Catastrophically Yours

TEN

THE CONTRACT

Pickle wound around her ankles, his orange fur brushing against her legs as he released a long, plaintive meow. Even he seemed to sense the weight of unspoken decisions hanging in the air.

"I know, buddy," Drew murmured, crouching to scratch behind his ears. "I'm overthinking everything."

The irony wasn't lost on her—here she was, seeking comfort from the cat who'd supposedly chosen Piper over her. But watching Pickle's obvious contentment, the way he moved through this apartment like he owned it, Drew wondered if maybe he'd simply recognized home when he found it.

Maybe they all had.

A sharp knock echoed through the apartment, and Drew's pulse quickened. Piper wouldn't knock—she had keys. But it was too early for casual visitors.

Drew padded to the door, Pickle trailing behind her. Through the peephole, she saw a familiar silhouette that made her stomach drop.

Chris stood in the hallway, leather jacket fitted perfectly across his shoulders, expensive boots polished to a shine.

He held a thick manila envelope in one hand and wore that devastating smile that had once made her forget her own name.

Dark hair fell across his forehead in that deliberately careless way he'd perfected.

For a moment, Drew considered pretending she wasn't home. But Chris had always been persistent, and she'd learned it was better to face difficult conversations head-on rather than let them fester.

She unlocked the door but left the chain engaged, peering through the gap. "What are you doing here, Chris?"

His smile widened, revealing teeth that were definitely whiter than she remembered. "Nice to see you too, Drew. Can I come in? I've got something that's going to change your life."

"How did you even find me?"

"Sadie." He shrugged, unapologetic. "Took some convincing, but I can be very persuasive when it matters."

Drew made a mental note to have words with her best friend later. She reluctantly unhooked the chain and opened the door wider, stepping back as Chris swept into the apartment with the kind of confident energy that seemed to fill every available inch of space.

He paused just inside the doorway, taking in Piper's meticulously organized living room. His fingers trailed along the back of the couch, lingering on one of the perfectly fluffed throw pillows like he was testing its authenticity.

"So this is where you've been hiding." Chris picked up one of Piper's labeled storage containers from the side table, examining it like a curious artifact. "Jesus, Drew. Color-coded labels? What happened to you?"

Heat flared in Drew's chest, protective and sharp. "Nothing happened to me. I'm just staying here temporarily."

"Temporarily." Chris set the container down with deliberate care, but she caught the way he shook his head. "Right."

Drew crossed her arms. "What do you want, Chris?"

His expression shifted, becoming more serious, more focused. This was the look he got when he was about to pitch a venue owner or convince a reluctant sound engineer to work past midnight. "I want to give you everything you've ever dreamed of."

He moved to Piper's pristine coffee table and began pulling papers from the manila envelope, spreading them across the glass surface with practiced efficiency. Contract pages covered in dense legal text, letterhead that made Drew's breath catch, numbers that seemed too big to be real.

"The label loved your demo," Chris said, his voice taking on that persuasive rhythm she remembered too well. "I mean, they were blown away. Three-album deal, Drew. Fifty thousand signing bonus, plus full creative control. Studio time with some of the best producers in Nashville."

Drew stared at the papers, the words blurring slightly as her mind tried to process what she was seeing. Three albums. Creative control. Fifty thousand dollars—more money than she'd seen in her entire adult life combined.

"This is..." She sank onto the edge of the couch, careful not to disturb the contract pages. "This is real?"

"As real as it gets." Chris sat beside her, close enough that she could smell his cologne—expensive and woody, nothing like the simple soap scent that seemed to cling to Piper's apartment.

"Everything you've worked for since college.

Everything we used to talk about in those crappy dive bars when we were nobody. "

She picked up one of the pages, scanning the dense legal language.

Her name was there, spelled correctly, next to numbers and terms that represented everything she'd been chasing for years.

Financial security. Professional validation.

The chance to reach more than just the handful of people who showed up to open mic nights.

"There's just one thing," Chris continued, his voice carefully casual. "They need an answer soon. Like, tomorrow soon. And if you're serious about this—really serious—you'd need to come to Nashville with me. Tonight."

Drew's head snapped up. "Tonight?"

"The industry moves fast, Drew. If we wait, if we hesitate, somebody else gets the studio time. Somebody else gets the producer's attention. You know how this works."

She did know. The music industry was notoriously fickle, built on timing and momentum and being ready to move when opportunity knocked.

But leaving tonight meant leaving before Piper got back from her run.

Before they could finish the conversation they'd started in Chapter 9 about wanting something permanent.

Before she could explain what this apartment, this life, had come to mean to her.

"What about my living situation here?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.

Chris's expression flickered—just for a moment—with something calculating. Then his face softened into what looked like genuine concern.

"Drew, I get it. You're grateful. She helped you out when you needed a place to stay.

But think about what you're saying." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to that intimate tone he used to use when they were alone.

"You're going to give up your dream—your actual, real dream—for what?

A temporary housing arrangement with someone you've known for two weeks? "

"It's not like that."

"Isn't it?" Chris gestured around the apartment again. "Look at this place, Drew. When's the last time you wrote a song? Really wrote one, from the heart?"

The question hit harder than she expected. It was true that she'd been struggling with new material lately. But that wasn't because of Piper—was it? Life here was comfortable, stable. Maybe too stable for someone whose art had always thrived on emotional intensity and uncertainty.

"She's not holding me back," Drew said, but even as the words left her mouth, she wondered if Chris might have a point.

A sound from across the room made them both turn.

Pickle had emerged from wherever he'd been hiding, probably drawn by curiosity about the stranger's voice.

But the moment Chris reached toward him with an automatic, dismissive gesture, Pickle's back arched.

His fur stood on end, and he released a sharp hiss before retreating under Piper's desk chair.

"Still got that emotional support cat, I see," Chris muttered, wiping his hand on his jeans as if Pickle had actually made contact.

"His name is Pickle," Drew said, surprised by the edge in her own voice. "And he's a good judge of character."

Chris held up his hands in mock surrender. "Sorry. I just never understood the whole therapy pet thing." He paused, studying her face. "Though I guess living here, you're probably picking up all kinds of new... dependencies."

There it was again—that subtle suggestion that being here was changing her in ways that weren't necessarily good. That Piper's influence was somehow diminishing her instead of adding to who she was.

But that wasn't true, was it? Living here hadn't made her less creative—it had given her space to breathe.

For the first time in years, she wasn't constantly stressed about rent or utilities or whether she'd have enough money for groceries.

She'd been sleeping better, eating better, even helping organize a benefit concert that might actually make a difference in people's lives.

"Piper's been nothing but supportive," Drew said. "She's coming to the benefit concert tonight, and she's been helping me plan?—"

"Benefit concert?" Chris's eyebrows rose. "Drew, you're playing charity gigs while major labels are trying to sign you. Do you see the problem here?"

Heat flashed through her. "It's not just a charity gig. We're raising money for her mother's medical bills, and?—"

"Her mother's medical bills." Chris leaned back, his expression shifting to something that looked almost pitying. "Drew, listen to yourself. You're organizing fundraisers for people you barely know instead of focusing on your own career. This is exactly what I'm talking about."

The words stung because they echoed her own occasional doubts. Was she getting too comfortable? Too settled? Had she lost the hunger that used to drive her music?

Chris pulled out his phone, swiping through photos.

"Remember this?" He held up the screen, showing pictures Drew recognized from their touring days.

Late-night diners with sticky vinyl booths and fluorescent lighting.

Tiny stages in dive bars where the audience consisted of three drunk regulars and a bartender who looked bored.

Hotel rooms in different cities, cheap but full of possibility.

"Remember how that felt? The freedom? The adventure? Never knowing what city we'd wake up in or what crowd we'd play for that night?"

Drew did remember. She remembered the adrenaline rush of performing for strangers, the way applause felt like validation.

She also remembered the constant uncertainty, never knowing if they'd make enough gas money to get to the next gig, living on convenience store food and whatever free drinks venues would comp them.

Chris leaned closer, and suddenly the space between them felt charged with history and possibility.

"I know this is a lot," he said, his voice softer now.

"But think about what you're really choosing here, Drew.

Think about whether you're staying because you love this life, or because you're afraid of the bigger one waiting for you. "

The words hit like a physical blow. Fear. Was that what this was? Was her growing attachment to Piper, to this apartment, to the domestic routine they'd been building—was it all just elaborate self-sabotage disguised as contentment?

"The label needs an answer by tomorrow," Chris continued, gathering the contract papers with practiced efficiency. "But if you're really going to do this—if you're going to take your shot—you need to be ready to move fast. Pack tonight. Leave with me in the morning."

He stood, straightening his leather jacket and checking his watch with the kind of casual confidence that suggested he already knew what her answer would be.

"I need time to think," Drew said, but the words felt weak even to her own ears.

Chris paused at the door, manila envelope tucked under his arm. When he looked back at her, his expression was gentle but implacable.

"Don't think too long," he said. "Opportunities like this don't wait for anyone—not even someone as talented as you. And Drew?" He paused. "Whatever you decide, make sure you're choosing your life, not just avoiding it."

The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Drew alone with the lingering scent of expensive cologne and the weight of an impossible choice.

Fifty thousand dollars. Three albums. Everything she'd dreamed of since she first picked up Luna and realized that music was the only language she'd ever spoken fluently.

From under the desk, Pickle emerged cautiously, as if checking to make sure the intruder was really gone. He padded over to Drew and sat at her feet, looking up at her with those knowing green eyes.

"What do you think, Pickle?" she whispered. "What would you do?"

But even as she asked the question, Drew realized the choice wasn't just between career paths.

It was between the person she'd been—always chasing, always uncertain, always dependent on someone else's vision of her potential—and the person she'd started becoming here.

Someone who organized benefit concerts, who helped solve other people's problems, who woke up every morning in a place that felt like home.

The question was whether that growth was worth more than everything she'd spent years working toward.

And whether she was brave enough to find out.