Oh, I could die.
But I guess that’s the splash of cold water in the face I need.
I’m not unique.
I’m not anybody.
And Blake’s probably just as nice to everyone who calls in, letting them feel like he cares for them while he’s just being polite so people won’t get their feelings crushed.
So I won’t get my feelings hurt.
I muster a laugh from somewhere, even though my stomach’s sinking with utter humiliation.
“Don’t even,” I say. “No one’s trying to hook up. I just wanted to talk about recording a song for you. I don’t think your listeners want to hear all the tedious details of that.”
“Right,” Blake says—but he sounds funny. “Don’t worry, I’ll find you, and we’ll get the details ironed out.”
“Sure,” I say.
Then I hang up, before this stabbing at my chest can get worse.
Could I really have been more obvious?
I feel like that girl who called in about her crush, knowing the boy might be listening, might recognize her voice, might think she was desperate and sad and not worth his time. High school boys can be cruel.
Grown men aren’t any better. Sometimes they’re even worse.
Blake’s not like that, I tell myself.
But I don’t dare let myself believe he wants me, either.
Not even when part of me turns giddy.
I’m too freaking happy at the thought that I have a reason to see him again, without just waiting for that prideful beast to come to me.
* * *
I won’t lie: I’m restless for the rest of the week.
Part of it’s waiting for Blake to follow up about recording a little bumper tune for the show.
The rest? I can’t stop thinking about his advice. Making a career out of my music.
It’s not like I’m gunning to be some huge star.
I don’t even want to have my own albums.
For me, the money’s an afterthought. It’s not about the stardom, the spotlight, the legions of adoring fans.
I’d just be pleased as punch piecing together songs for others.
Like, remember that girl in Coyote Ugly?
I’m not quite her. I don’t crave the attention on stage.
I just want to hear my songs on the radio, even if I’m not the one performing them.
And I’ve been scribbling away for days, trying out different lyrics, strumming chords on the old guitar I inherited from my father, playing riffs on my portable Casio keyboard. Hardly anything studio-worthy, but at least it helps me get ideas down.
It’s coming together.
A song about a damaged desperado type. He keeps himself moving by fighting for the people he loves but never lets himself get too close. For him it’s always look, don’t touch.
Too real?
Guess so because I don’t know how to wrap the song up.
No matter which direction I go, it feels like an unfinished story, and I’m not sure it’s even mine to tell.
God.
I need to get out of my head.
And that’s how I find myself at the main house with Haley and Andrea, sitting in on Andrea’s art lessons.
I may be a musician at heart, but there are some fine arts totally out of my reach.
Haley promised to keep it simple, but her idea of simple is whipping out a lifelike chalk pastel portrait in no time. It’s the big orange tabby lurking around the inn, and she’s got Mr. Mozart sketched in wild meowy detail in under an hour.
Andrea’s drawn a cat too, but hers is more like something off a goth metal album cover. All saber teeth and fur dripping like black ink with crazy yellow eyes. Total Marilyn Manson meets H.R. Giger vibes, and while it’s creepy as hell, it’s also really good.
She’s got serious talent, and she moves her brush pen with these fluid strokes that make looping, flowing lines everywhere.
Then there’s me.
Um…if I was five, my mom might stick this rickety mess of pencil scratches on the fridge.
It doesn’t even quite look like a cat.
It’s more like a…snake with legs and whiskers?
Hey, it was fun. Honestly, I didn’t come here to learn to draw anyway.
I just needed company, friendly humans, and both of these ladies have been happy to let me butt in.
Especially Andrea. She’s putting the finishing touches on razory cat claws when she asks, “So did you ever surf back in Oahu?”
I laugh—and try not to be obvious about erasing the second tail I accidentally drew on my cat. Kind of a lost cause. The paper is the kind that crumbs up and thins when you erase it.
“Oh, all the time,” I say. “Though I always stayed on the small waves. My mom worried too much and wouldn’t let me tackle the big ones. I guess she was scared I’d drown.”
Andrea wrinkles her nose. “Ugh. My mom was like that, too. She just always…” She shrugs stiffly, staring down at her sketchbook. “It’s like if I stepped out of line even a little, something awful was going to happen.”