I laugh. “Emotions are bullshit? I feel bad for your wife, dude.”

He ignores that. “Go record some music, kid. I’ll check in with you later and—I’m getting another call. Hold on.”

“Why? We were already hanging up—”

“Stay on the line,” he commands, and then the extension goes silent.

I swallow my irritation, because, seriously, I’m just supposed to sit here twiddling my thumbs while he talks to another client? I have better things to do with my time than—

“King is calling you in about one minute,” Jim suddenly barks in my ear.

My breath stalls in my throat. Holy hell. “Are you serious?”

“Yup. Be cool. Do not push him. Let him talk.”

I slowly release a puff of air. “Got it.”

“Be cool,” Jim presses.

“I got it.” When the phone beeps, I pull the screen away from my face to see a blocked caller. “He’s calling right now. I’ll call you back.” I switch over before Jim can give me the order to be cool one more time.

I rub my hands on my bedspread, trying to control my nerves. “Yo, King,” I greet him.

“Hey, Oakley.”

“Oak,” I tell him. “All my friends call me Oak.” And you and I are going to be closer than brothers by the time we’re done.

“Yeah, all right. I’ve been watching your Insta likes pile up. You’re getting a righteous response.”

“It’s sweet.” And then because I hate the uncertainty and I don’t want to hang back and wait, I do exactly the opposite of what Jim ordered. “You gotta know that I’m a fangirl of yours. The only reason I’m not stalking you is because Jim would kill me.”

King laughs.

“We both know I’m dying to work with you. And since this is the first call you’ve returned of mine, I’m guessing it’s for something more than congratulating me on a viral hit.”

“You’re right. I’m seeing maturity in your music. The sounds you had before could have been produced by anyone.”

He’s not wrong. I could try to bluff my way out here, tell him I’ve been working on new things since the drop of my last album, but he’d be able to hear the lie the moment he walked into the studio. I opt for brutal honesty. “If I don’t create something new, my career could be over. We both know single artists have a very short shelf life.”

“You want to make a new sound so you stay relevant? Because teen girls are the only fans that matter in this business and they still love you. If staying famous is what you want, then you don’t need me.”

“No, I want to make a new sound because I don’t relate to my old one. I’m not trying to reinvent myself so much as…” It’s going to take some leap of faith, some shedding of my protective layer, some introspection to get King to come on board. “As trying to find myself,” I admit. “I’m lost and have been for a while.” Then I shut up and for once in my life, I wait.

“Ahhhh.” It’s a satisfied sound. “I can work with that, Oak. How about I come over, say, Thursday?”

“Sounds good, man, real good.”

We chat for a few more minutes, arranging a time and place. When I hang up, my hands are shaking and my palms are damp and I’m close to throwing up.

And yet I’ve never felt better.

25

HER

@OakleyFord @OakleyFord_No1Stan @sabaataani @vogue @ VeryVaughn please follow me

@OakleyFord I wanna bite you

@OakleyFord be my VALENTINE!

“So,” Oakley says in a conversational tone, “is this the best Valentine’s Day you’ve ever had, or the worst?”

Those two measly words—Valentine’s Day—bring a sharp ache to my heart. I know Oakley is simply trying to lighten the mood, but the reminder just hurts. I never in a million years thought I’d be spending Valentine’s Day this year without my boyfriend.

But I am. Because I don’t have a boyfriend. Not anymore.

It’s still surreal every time I think about the breakup. It’s been two weeks since W stormed out of my house. Two weeks with no contact, no text messages or make-out sessions, no…tears. Not a single tear, and that’s what bothers me the most. W and I were together for so long, and yet after that first sob-fest the night he ended it, I haven’t cried over him at all.

Sure, I get a pang in my chest when he crosses my thoughts, and I might have been swallowing repeatedly when I forced myself to delete some of the pictures on my laptop. But for the most part, I’m just…numb.

And…

Relieved.

God. I feel awful every time that sensation of relief washes over me, but I can’t seem to stop it. And every time I experience it, I think back to my conversation with Paisley when she told me I hadn’t truly loved W.

“Purse your lips together.”

The command jolts me from my troubling thoughts. It comes from Belinda, a five-foot tall, blue-haired terror who gives me a stern look and makes a circle in front of her lips.

I roll my eyes but do as I’m told. According to Claudia, Belinda’s in charge of me this morning.

“No. That’s too much like a fish,” she chides. “We want you pouty, not like you belong in a koi pond.”

Next to me, Oakley laughs so hard the entire sofa shakes.

“This is insane,” I mutter. “And to answer your question, this V-Day is neither good nor bad. It’s just weird.”

“What? Your Instagrams aren’t all staged and posed?”

There’s a note in his voice, a warm, affectionate one that causes my breath to hitch, and once again I’m struck by the inappropriate response I’m having toward Oakley. I’ve spent the past two weeks reminding myself that he’s not my real boyfriend, but he’s making it hard to remember that.

Like, with his texts. The ones that come directly to my phone and not by way of Twitter or an Instagram message. Ones that sound suspiciously like his flirty Tweets.

I’m too chicken to ask if it was him on the other end of our public exchanges, but surely he doesn’t have Claudia’s team text me things like:

I woke up at nine this morning. I didn’t realize the sun was up this early.

And:

I’m at the music store, fondling guitars. I need another one like I need another tat. This is why I shouldn’t get up early. Come and entertain me.

That was the first of his offhanded requests to spend time with him. And I wanted to. Boy, did I ever. But the idea of spending nonwork time with Oakley freaks me out a little. My breakup with W isn’t even a month old. I’m scared Oak’s magnetism might suck me in, lure me into some kind of rebound thing I’m not sure I’m ready for. So I’ve been making up excuses.

Can’t. Cooking dinner right now.

Can’t. Trying to find a good recipe for tiramisu.

Can’t. Picking up twins from lessons.

With the new influx of cash, Paisley was able to pay for the twins to attend a basketball camp—something they’ve always wanted but we’ve never been able to afford before.

The day after my last excuse, I got a video from Oak.

Whaddaya think?

He was playing music again, toying with the arrangements of his old songs. Nothing new lyrically, but the sound was definitely different. It had an older, more rock sound than his previous three albums.

It’s good.

Good is a devil’s word. It’s lukewarm, like day-old coffee. No one wants that.

I’m not a singer. I can’t play an instrument. I can only tell u if I like it or don’t like it. I like it.

Am I giving u shivers?

Every time I read a text, I wanted to type back. Every time I hear my phone buzz.

But he was asking about my response to his music, not to him, so I said

Not yet.

Making me work for it?

Being honest? I like it.

I want u to love it.

I didn’t love it, though. It sounded good. It sounded different. But there were no shivers and I wasn’t going to lie to him.

Then, yeah, making u work for it.

He didn’t text me until several hours later and I wondered if I’d offended him.