I jump down from the counter and swoop past him. “Get out.”
“Where are you going? I wanted to banter.”
“Text me when she lands.” I flick a hand in the air, waving him off without a backward glance. Hopefully the slam of my bedroom door sees him off.
When I’m alone, I deflate against the door, hands in my pockets, and glance around the sparse space that is no more than a California king, a cocobolo desk, a nightstand, and a door that leads to a sprawling closet filled with monochrome suits.
A memory drifts through my mind: a tiny attic bedroom, candles on ledges, a quilted bed with dozens of sea-blue pillows, and a teddy bear tucked in the corner. Posters taped to colorful walls, scattered books, and an upright piano with a cherrywood finish and well-worn ivory keys.
Music.
Not just the sound of piano chords or dreamy lyrics but the kind of music that infuses each breath, grounding you in the moment. The music of living, of truly being present. But living is a privilege, and I know that survival is what counts.
It’s been years since I’ve allowed myself to think of those days, to humanize myself. It’s funny how just a few months of your life can still glow brighter than all the rest. Almost twenty-two years I’ve lived, and my clearest memories are of that bedroom.
That rooftop. That stage.
It’s like hearing your favorite song play. Millions of songs exist, bleeding into all the others, but a century could pass, and you’d still remember every single word to that one.
Every beat. Every note.
I shake away the mirage, dislodging the memories that don’t serve me anymore.
Still, something has me strolling toward my nightstand and popping open the drawer. It’s not filled with much. A notebook scribbled with words, dialogue, and unstructured ideas. A script. Pens, cigarettes, keys to things I don’t remember but are likely important.
And a little pendant. A blue-green star.
I stare at it for a long moment before sliding down the side of the bed and slumping to the floor. I haven’t had the willpower to get rid of it, and I haven’t had the nerve to mail it back to her. So there it sits. Tucked away and lusterless, tossed in a pile of random things next to my bed.
A good-luck charm.
But I’m still waiting.
Chapter 22
Stevie
The Hollywood Hills greet me in a tight hug as I step out of the limousine and allow my eyes to adjust to the starry night.
The city stretches out before me, dotted with a sprawl of palm trees and the twinkling lights of downtown, the air thick with the scent of cool asphalt and blooming bougainvillea. Urban grit and floral sweetness. The skyline is impressed with the silhouette of skyscrapers and the distant outline of the Hollywood sign, a promise of dreams destined to come true.
I inhale a big breath.
I’ve always wanted to be here, to drink in the West Coast air, tinged with salt from the sea. Despite my nerves and hesitation, it would be a disservice to not savor every detail.
“Here is your bag, miss,” the driver says, coming up beside me with my carry-on suitcase. “It was a pleasure serving you today.”
I smile kindly at the man, his hair as dark as the sky, expression warm and pleasant. “Thank you. Here, let me give you a tip.”
He stops me as I reach into my handbag for a few measly dollar bills. “No, that’s not necessary. Mr. Hall has it covered. Do you need assistance inside?”
Blinking away from him, I glance across the sidewalk at the upscale hotel. It rises majestically before me, tall columns framing the entrance, their ivory marble gleaming under the amber lights. Wrought-iron balconies overlookthe bustling street, while a cascading fountain at the entrance adds a touch of serenity. “Oh…no, thank you. I think I’ve got it covered.” I peer back at him. “What was your name again?”
“Adrian.” He extends a hand. “Let Mr. Hall know if there’s anything else I can do for you. I’m happy to oblige.”
I nod through a flash of teeth, accepting the handshake. “I appreciate that.”
“Enjoy your stay.”
