Page 14 of Until the End (The Lost Letters #3)

Ginny

P iano notes float through my studio, a haunting melody of low tones with a whisper of hope woven into the background. Emotion bleeds out of me as I play. It’s cathartic as much as it’s healing. I barely acknowledge my music producer on the other end of our video call.

When I realized I had enough songs written to have the makings of an album, I called Henry to share them.

He worked on the last album with me and was instrumental in making it go platinum.

It was a collaborative effort, unlike my first album.

I wrote the songs but had no say in which ones actually went on the album or how they sounded.

It was a learning experience, to say the least.

I refused to record again unless I had the creative freedom to make my albums what I wanted. The label reluctantly agreed, but they had to eat their words when the whole album hit instead of only a couple of the songs they’d chosen.

As the music trails off, all I’m met with is silence. “Henry?” I crack my eyes open, hesitant to see his face. If there’s anything less than awe, I might cry. My whole soul went into writing that song .

His megawatt smile tells me everything I need to know. “Jesus, Ginny. What’s in the water out there?”

I snort. “I think it’s more the distance from everything else that’s doing the trick.”

Henry tilts his head in acknowledgment. The thing I love most about my shaggy-blond-haired surfer-boy producer is how little he cares about my celebrity status.

He’s worked with people both more and less famous than me.

There’s never been a moment when he hasn’t been professional.

He’s become a friend and someone I feel like I can trust with my creative process.

“Well, whatever it is, this might be your best album yet. I can’t wait to start working on it.”

“I’ve got a couple of other songs percolating right now, but they’re not ready yet.”

“This is a good start. Can I tell the higher-ups you’re finally working on something?” He smirks.

“Yeah, go ahead. I gotta find a new manager before I sign anything, though.”

“Understood. I’ll let them know.”

We talk for a while longer, working through any kinks I’m having with my songs.

Sometimes, having him on the other side of a call is all I need to figure out a melody or a lyric.

Singing to someone changes how I hear the song, which allows me to rethink the arrangement.

Henry is talented enough to know when I need help and when I can work it out on my own.

“You’ve got a great start, Ginny. Give me a call when those other songs are ready. We’ll get something worked out.”

“What are the chances I could convince you to come here to record?”

He narrows his eyes. “Pretty minimal.”

“I’ll come up with the right incentive. Then you won’t be able to say no. ”

Henry chuckles. “Good luck with that.”

We say goodbye, and I keep tweaking parts of the songs I’ve already written. A couple of them are close to being perfect, but they’re not quite there yet. I haven’t heard that note in my head when it finally hits the mark.

By the time I surface, it’s late afternoon, and my shoulders are aching from being hunched over my piano and notebook.

I walk straight to my back patio, stretching my neck back and forth to relieve the pressure.

Fresh air is always needed when I’ve spent an entire day in the studio.

It brings life back into my brain and body.

The glint of the pool catches my eye, and a terrible idea comes to mind.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what Gia and Lottie told me the other day.

Could Carson really have feelings for me? I mean…he’s my best friend. I have no doubt he loves me, but is it possible he could love me as more than a friend? And how do I feel about that?

The idea sends a bolt of warmth into my belly. I firmly believe that any woman lucky enough to be loved by Carson would never want for anything her entire life. When Carson goes all in on something, he doesn’t do it halfway. There are no shortcuts when he’s interested.

I always wondered if that’s why he never settled down with anyone. Giving your entire soul to someone isn’t something you can easily take back once it’s done. He’d need to be selective—careful—about who he makes his entire world.

You’ll never be good enough.

The voice in my head cuts deep to the heart of my worry. How could I ever be the woman worthy of Carson? I don’t have anything to offer him because he’s not a material guy. My fame and fortune mean nothing to him. He’d only want me…and I don’t know if I’m enough .

No.

That’s not true. I am enough. I am not just the music I write or the money I make. There’s more to me than how famous I am. I refuse to allow the vitriol Wesley used to sling at me to become my narrative.

“You’re stronger than him,” I say out loud.

With renewed confidence, I march upstairs to my bedroom.

Chelsea ordered clothes for me when Daren said I couldn’t get my stuff out of my house yet.

After the police went through it, Daren wanted his team to examine the scene before they cleaned up.

He hasn’t told me what they’ve found yet, and I’m trying hard not to think about it.

I dig through a drawer in my closet. Half the swimsuits in here won’t even cover my ass, not to mention they’re held together by strings as thin as floss.

But maybe that’s the goal…

Am I seriously contemplating wearing a sexy bikini to test Carson’s feelings?

Would it even work?

I grab the red swimsuit that keeps catching my eye and put it on.

My reflection in the full-length mirror on the wall has me biting my lip.

I barely recognize myself in this. Reserved is a nice way to describe my typical clothing choices.

Chelsea must’ve thought she was being sneaky buying this stuff.

If it works, I may have to send her a thank-you card.

Snagging a black cover-up from the hanger, I put it on before going back outside. The sunshine has warmed the concrete under my feet, and I pause by the side of the pool to soak it in. Summer has always been my favorite time of year. Even when it’s a million degrees outside, I bask in the warmth.

Okay, what do I do next? I could get in the pool and send him a picture from a floaty or lie on one of my loungers. This swimsuit is doing great things for my average boobs. I don’t think I’m ready to send him an image of my half-covered booty cheeks yet…

Oh, god…what am I even thinking?

This is such a bad idea.

I grab a green floaty from the storage space and wade into the warm water. If I can make it look like I’m actually in the middle of doing something instead of trying to get his attention, then I can play it off a whole lot easier if he doesn’t return my feelings.

My first attempt to get in the floaty ends with me going under the water. I come up, wiping water out of my eyes and giggling at myself. For some reason, it helps me relax into the moment. This is a silly fact-finding mission. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that.

Once I get into the plastic floating chair, I snatch my phone from the side of the pool. I allow myself three tries to get a pic I like and send it before I can think about it.

Then I put my phone back on the side of the pool and relax into the evening sunshine. Whatever comes next, I will be okay. I’ll make sure of it.