Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
I hug my father.
Then I sit down, and I talk to him, really talk to him. About music and Daphne and Cassie and how much I wish things were different.
But they aren't.
And I have to live with that.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Cassie
In the morning, I get the official call from Bryce. He wants our songs. Nine of them.
And more, Lisa wants me.
"Just you, Cassie," he says. "Not you and Damon. Just you."
"I can't write music," I say it without thinking.
"She has someone else. Not your ex-boyfriend. A woman, actually," he says. "You'd make a cute throuple."
"Isn't she your girlfriend?" I ask.
He just laughs as if I'd have a serious girlfriend. "That's another thing, Cass. I know you and Damon aren't really seeing each other."
He does?
But we—
We do love each other.
Even if this started off fake, even if we're on pause or broken up forever, we do love each other.
Of course, Bryce doesn't wait for me to sort through my feelings. He continues his pitch. "Since Lisa is preparing to dump me publicly, I think it would be pretty epic if I slept with her songwriter. It's like Fleetwood Mac times a thousand. Can you imagine the press?"
I can, actually. And I'm not into it. "I want to stay behind the scenes."
"Just think about it," he says. "She's going to call you next. She adores you. Say yes. For me, okay?"
"That's not fair to Damon," I say.
"It's just business, Cass. He gets that."
"Even so," I say.
"I called him first, to get his blessing," Bryce says. "Not on the fake dating. On the music. He doesn't want to clip your wings. He wants you to soar."
That sounds right, actually. And it's sweet. An act of love. I just hate it. I want to pull him closer, not set him free.
But that's not what we need right now.
"I believe his exact words were, 'she'll kill that. Don't let her turn it down,'" he says.
He's right.
I will kill that.
But I don't know if I'm ready for another project, especially not with these two, so I'll say, "let me think about it," and I do what I do whenever I can't figure something out.
I pour my thoughts onto the page.
My words are a messy tangle at first. Slowly, they shift into something that makes sense.
I'm supposed to write a love song
What a silly little task
A girl like me
All eyeliner and thorns
Everyone knows better
Than to believe
There's something beating in my chest
I'm supposed to write a love song
Not wrap barbed wire
Around my heart
It's almost as sharp as my wit
All the boys with guitars
Want to serenade me
But I'd rather have a new ex
I'm supposed to write a love song
Who am I, Taylor Swift?
A girl like me
All eyeliner and thorns
Who would believe I'm not broken?
This is a fucking mess
It's not quite there—the meter is off, the chorus isn't simple enough—but it's a start.
I hug my notebook.
I lock myself in my room. I listen to breakup songs. I toss and turn.
Lisa calls with the offer, and I ask her for another day.
The next morning, my dad tries to talk sense into me. He tells me to take the opportunity. I'll feel better if I start working.
He's right about that, of course, and I want to start working.
Just not necessarily with Lisa or Bryce.
After I promise him I'll think about it, I go back to my room, and I send Damon the lyrics.
Cassie: What do you think about this? For Lisa.
He replies an hour later.
Damon: Last I heard, she only wants you.
Cassie: I can't get notes from my favorite songwriting partner?
Damon: I think it sounds like you.
Cassie: It is me.
Damon: Is that really how you feel?
Cassie: It's a song.
Damon: Can we talk?
Cassie: I don't know if I'm ready.
An hour later, he sends a handwritten note.
You're supposed to write a love song.
But you hate fucking love songs.
Let's talk tonight. The beach by your house. Sunset.
I'll bring my guitar.
I know, all that eyeliner and wit
And you still have a crush on Liam Gallagher
(Don't worry. I won't tell)
I find Damon exactly where he said he'd be, on the sand, with his guitar in his lap.
"You look like you're about to play Wonderwall," I say. I mean it as a joke, but it comes out wrong. Like an accusation and a plea. And also, I do not have a crush on Liam Gallagher. Anymore.
"I take requests." He smiles, but that's wrong too. Sad. Definitive.
I shake my head. "Is that why you brought the six-string?"
"Miserable assholes are your type."
My lips curl into a smile. He's right, of course. But the smile hurts. Because it's all there. The I love you but I can't do this.
"Cass…"
I swallow hard.
"Will you do me a favor?"
"I don't think you're in a position to ask for favors?"
"Even so."
"You can ask," I say.
"Take the gig."
"I will," I say. "I'll kill it."
He smiles. "You will."
"You're not worried I'll fall in love with her?" I ask.