Fishing did not happen right away.

I couldn’t say I was displeased.

There wasn’t much time for it, because I holed up in Flynn’s studio. For such a homey-seeming cabin, the studio itself appeared to be state of the art. Not that I could tell such things myself, being such a newbie, but I had a feeling.

My time in the studio at Ripper had been limited before everything had occurred with Margo, and I certainly didn’t feel up to spending time trying to adjust the different sounds and tonal qualities and other aspects I could add. Well, beyond giving myself a backing band—synthesized as it was—and replicating my own voice.

I picked up how to do that rather quickly, with more than a little help from Flynn. He was quite at ease behind the board.

I was learning.

It had been nearly a week since I’d arrived and I already had a routine. Wake up, shower, raid Flynn’s refrigerator—like magic, food just kept appearing without him seeming to do any shopping—engage in some trivial argument with Flynn that usually involved laughter, then move to the studio. Where I fought with the words stuck in my brain and futilely tried to get them down on paper in my composition notebook.

My progress was slow. Halting. Usually, the logjam in my head only started loosening once I tormented myself with flicking through the photos on Zoe’s Instagram. She seemed to be on some sort of trip. I wished like hell she’d post just one selfie, so I could see her with my own two eyes and be sure she was okay.

It didn’t happen.

Still, the small bit of connection helped. Oh, it hurt too. I knew it wasn’t meant for me. Zoe had used Instagram far before I’d come into her life. But I’d settle for that narrow window into her life if it meant she was all right.

I might hope she still missed me, but more than anything, I wished for her to have peace. Even if I knew without her, I never truly would.

This bit of masochism wouldn’t help, but I would do things differently this time. I wouldn’t tag her. If she saw it, it would be because either she’d looked herself or someone else had tagged her. But not me.

I adjusted the headphones I’d stretched to fit Matilda’s boxy shape.

Yes, I’d stolen her back. I had to. This part of Zoe might be all I would ever have.

I was selfish. A besotted fool, as Flynn had commented more than once. But Matilda represented the best moments of my life. Not because of the stage, though that too had played a part. Most of all, that happiness was due to Zoe. No career could compare to what it was to finally have love.

Even if I’d lost it so spectacularly.

I took the picture with my mobile and uploaded it with the simple caption.

Back to work in the studio.

Within minutes, my direct messages were numbering in the hundreds and I had what seemed like endless likes, reposts, and excited comments.

We missed you!

Where did you go?

That leaked clip of you and Simon was so amazing. Please, give us more!

Hey, can we get a selfie of you with those headphones on?

And the one that killed me.

Aww, he’s still trying to get Zoe’s attention. True love.

This woman named Annie was right. I would never stop trying to get Zoe’s attention. I lived for it. Starved for her like the seagulls that I’d seen at the beach. Desperate for any crumb.

I waited for a few moments in case Zoe saw fit to toss one at me in the form of a snarky reply or even a threat about stolen property.

Anything.

Of course she might be busy. She was on a journey of her own, and I didn’t know how often she checked Instagram. But she’d certainly been tagged plenty, and not by my hand.

With a deep breath, I set my mobile aside and picked up my notebook. Those words lodged inside me seemed pointier now, stabbing through flesh on their way out of me.

The next time I looked up, the light in the room had changed, the shadows shifting and growing deeper. Past lunchtime already. Far past from the looks of things. But I had a song. No, better than that, I had two. Neither of them would win me any awards. That was okay. At least I had some words on the page.

Semi-decent words.

Though my stomach protested, I hit record and moved to the boxy microphone that was my favorite. Flynn had a few to choose from, and they all produced different effects. I picked up my guitar and started to strum the first halting notes of the melody still forming in my mind.

Letting you go

Is what I’m supposed to do

Made you that promise

You made one too

But leaving you behind

Feels like dying inside

The best part of me

Is still in love with you

Just that part of the song took forever to get right. I spent what felt like hours adjusting the notes and the words and even the distance of my mouth from the microphone. Every piece of the puzzle mattered when it came to building a song. Including getting the diction right. When my voice broke on the last line of the first verse before the chorus, I moved to the board to delete the take.

“Leave it.”

I went still at Flynn’s voice. I hadn’t realized he’d been listening. I wasn’t aware of much when I was in the box, as Simon called it. Flynn’s studio was far bigger than one, but still, it was such an isolated environment. Nothing outside those four walls registered.

And now he’d stepped into them with me, and instead of feeling crowded, I was glad.

I was so fucking tired of being alone.

Sleeping alone.

Working alone.

Making music alone.

I missed my band, the one that had mostly been put together for me yet had somehow begun to become my own before Margo’s kidnapping.

That moment had fractured everything.

“How long have you been listening?” I pulled the monitor out of my ear and swiveled on my chair to face Flynn.

“Hmm, since you first came in here. So, what, a handful of days now, give or take?”

“Excuse me?”

“The rooms are all linked together. I have speakers in the living room that can play what goes on in this room at the push of a button.”

“Why ever would you have that?”

“When I’m working on something new, I like to leave the latest tracks running as I do other things. It lets the music permeate my brain as I go about my day.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t suit everyone, and sometimes it doesn’t even suit me. But the option is there.”

“Hmm.”

“You’d be surprised what shakes loose when your lunchtime session plays while you’re doing the dishes.”

“Why not just play the recorded tracks on your iPhone?”

“The speakers on that are shit comparatively. Have you seen the set-up in here?”

“Yes, but I don’t fully understand it.”

“You’re doing okay fumbling your way through. That can be the best way to learn.” He dropped into the big leather chair in the corner. It seemed more suited for a living room than a studio, but the chair fit Flynn like a throne for a king. “I’m sure Rory gave you some tips when you worked with him in the box.”

Big shot producer Rory Ferguson had been brought in to work on my debut EP, along with a team of others, like Deacon McCoy, the bassist of my brother’s band, Oblivion, and Gray Duffy, Oblivion’s rhythm guitarist.

Another fleet of people I’d let down by running off to brood. Not that any of them were depending on me for a paycheck. They all had huge careers.

I was the newbie.

“He did, but we didn’t get to work together long.”

“I can call him, get him out here. He’s in Tuscaloosa right now.”

I had no idea where that was, but it sounded intimidating. “Uh, I’m not sure I’m ready yet.”

Coward.

“You have no reason to be intimidated. You’re talented. Rory would never have agreed to work with you in the first place if he didn’t agree.”

“He didn’t really take a liking to me.”

“Did you give him lip?”

I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but I could guess. “No, but he might have thought I was disrespectful.” I sighed. “I was.”

“Want a do-over?”

I started to say no again. I wasn’t nearly ready to deal with Rory and everyone else again. Sure, I was lonely and missed that spirit of collaboration I’d finally found, but my work wasn’t at the level to merit it.

Unless that was just another excuse.

“Do you honestly think I have anything worthy of him right now? You’ve heard me this past week, obviously.”

“What’s the name of the song you’ve been working on today?”

“Best Part of Me.”

“It’s good. Real good. You ever consider dropping down into the lower register for the first verse? Let the words and the melody build until by the end, it’s a declaration.” He moved to the wall and took down one of the guitars, a deep brown Gibson. After plugging it into an amp, he sat down in his big chair again, plucking through a few notes, correcting and starting over, until he had my melody down pat. As he played, he nodded to me.

Okay then. Guess I was going to sing.

I shut my eyes and moved to the microphone again. It was easier than it had once been to access my lower register, since so much smoking recently had made my voice raspier. I sang the words I’d already memorized, letting the lyrics build and emotion rise in my chest. It poured out of my voice, filling the room with the heartbreak I had shoved down and buried so deep I’d almost convinced myself I was coping.

Not even a little.

Once I’d finished, I opened my eyes. I didn’t look at Flynn. I’d bared all. If his reaction was eh, I didn’t know if I’d be able to stomach it.

“It’s a fucking good song. A single for sure.” Flynn ran through the first few chords again, his fingers agile on the strings. “How do you feel about making it a duet?”

“Simon won’t sing with me.” Saying it quickly was the only way to stem the flash of pain.

“Did I mention Simon?”

I frowned. “Who else then?”

“Me.”

If he’d plowed a fist into my jaw, I probably would’ve been less stunned. “You’d consent to sing a song like this? Isn’t your work a bit harder-edged?”

Flynn had that whole hard driving honky tonk vibe going on. Not pure country, but an amalgamation of it and rock music. His lowest tones made mine look like I was a fucking soprano.

Already, I could hear him singing my words in my head. Hell, he’d probably make the song amazing. Ten times better than I could do alone.

“Fifty-fifty split?” I didn’t know why I was talking about money. We hadn’t even recorded it yet, never mind found someone interested in producing it. Just because I had a record contract didn’t mean Ripper would agree to have this song on my EP. There was a vetting process I still didn’t fully understand yet.

If I didn’t go home and deal with my situation, I never would. At least not until I was inside a courtroom and being sued for breach of contract.

“More like seventy-thirty. You did the hard work. I’m just stepping in and warbling.” Flynn flashed a smile and rolled up his chair beside mine at the console.

He pushed a couple buttons and another microphone, this one with a circular filter over the mic, lifted out of a compartment beside the board’s switches and levers.

“How do you want to do this?” I rubbed my palms on the thighs of my denims. “You start, then I come in on—”

“Follow my lead. You’ll see where I give you an opening.”

“I will?”

He grabbed my composition notebook and reread the lyrics for a moment or two, then picked up up his guitar and strummed the opening chords. Then he began to sing.

His voice was bristly and rough and aching in a way I envied. He was the real deal. A guy who’d lived and loved and expressed his perspective in his sound. He opened his mouth and you knew you were in the presence of greatness.

Not because he was the best out there. He didn’t have to be. He had a confidence, a swagger, that belied the pain of the lyrics. Telling the world he might be down now, but he wasn’t out.

Neither was I.

On the chorus, he slid a glance at me and I lowered my mouth to the mic, getting in nice and close as he had. I joined him on guitar as well and went for it.

We sounded good together.

It wasn’t like it had been with me and Simon. Flynn’s voice was the jagged to my smooth, the unbridled to my controlled. I’d never been the guy with polish, but compared to Flynn, I was as slick as the inside of a seashell. Every one of our differences contrasted in a way that melded perfectly for the song.

For the last verse, he stepped back and kept playing. And it was my turn to let loose.

I kept my eyes open as I sang, but it wasn’t Flynn I was singing to. I didn’t see his face. I saw Zoe as she’d been on the beach that day so long ago. It wasn’t that long in terms of weeks, but it was a lifetime considering how far we’d come.

Her hair shimmering in the sun, her eyes reflecting the light as if they were jewels. Her singing with me, almost unconcerned who overheard. Losing herself in the joy of the moment and dragging me with her until it was ours.

I channeled every bit of that day here. Wrung out every ounce of emotion inside me that I’d bottled and banked. And let it fly from my lips and through my fingers into the strings that burned under my fingers from the force of my playing.

My hand stilled and I bowed my head. This time, I wasn’t afraid to see his reaction. I needed a moment to get myself in line.

“Rory’s gonna piss himself over this.”

When I looked up, Flynn was manipulating levers and hitting buttons and generally doing the kinds of things Rory and Deacon had done. “You think so?”

“Oh, yeah. Van will rush it out the door sooner than I can say I told you so.”

I smiled. “So, sometimes heartbreak pays?”

“It’s gonna pay you. Me, I’m just mostly along for the ride.”

“Why did you want to sing with me anyway? Surely there’s no appeal for you, dueting with someone green like me.”

“You’ll find as you go along that you like a new challenge. Working with new blood, being surrounded with new enthusiasm. It’s easy to get pretty fucking jaded.”

“I understand.” I watched him work the board. “I used to be jaded about most things other than music.”

Now I was finding a new way to view life.

“The business will chew you up and spit you out if you let it. So, you can’t. You have to remember why you started. And not give up because you’ve already come so far.”

“Yeah.” I cleared my throat and rolled closer. “Will you teach me some of that stuff?”

“Sure, if you’ll get on a boat with me and drop a line.”

“Back to that again, huh,” I muttered. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

We did do it the next morning. And the morning after that, and the one after that. It was our new routine. Before we came to the studio—we, not just me—we climbed in a boat that seemed more suited for a child’s bathtub than a lake yet was surprisingly sturdy. We set off across the calm water, talking shit, casting lines, passing back and forth a bottle of pop since I’d given up on alcohol and Flynn did his drinking after lunch.

Mostly.

I never caught a fish. Flynn was convinced I didn’t want to. He wasn’t altogether wrong. After the first time I saw him land one and proceed to tell me all about it and then rip it open as if he was discussing the nightly news, I’d deduced I wasn’t exactly cut out for the life of a fisherman.

Though I didn’t mind the results on the dinner table, that was for certain. I could admit I was a bit of a hypocrite.

Not only about fishing. I was growing to love the Tennessee countryside. There was a smell to the air when I woke up every morning that drew me out onto the back deck with a cup of coffee—French pressed no less, because Flynn enjoyed the good stuff—and my notebook and my thoughts. I could hear better in that endless quiet, surrounded only by the quiet bubbling of the lake, the chirp of hungry, happy birds, and the wind sighing through the massive trees.

Day by day, I felt the load lift off my shoulders. My chest still ached just as much as the night I’d said goodbye to Zoe, but time moved on. And I did too, writing songs and finding my way back to myself.

The man I’d lost so many years ago.

Flynn appeared in the doorway behind me, his heavy footsteps loud enough to break my concentration if I wasn’t already well used to them. “We’re gonna have a guest.”

I kept writing, finishing the line of the song I’d been working on. Most likely, I’d have to scrap it, but I tried to put even the worst ideas down in case a gem laid buried beneath the rubble.

“Oh, really? Some lovely lady?”

Flynn hadn’t brought anyone home since I’d been there. It seemed surprising. He wasn’t the type to be indiscriminate, but I was sure he’d had his share of wild nights. He just didn’t seem like the kind of man to deny himself much.

I wondered if he had his own sob story to tell. If so, he hadn’t spilled it, and I wasn’t nosy enough to ask.

He chuckled. “I did see Rory in a wig that one time on Halloween.”

Immediately, I straightened. “Really? He’s coming here?”

“Should be here any minute. Bribed him with a night of debauchery after we do some work and get that single ready to send to Van. A preliminary version anyway. You’ll want your band to sit it on it and our takes were rudimentary at best.”

“You really think it’s ready for prime time? The song, I mean?”

I didn’t know why that particular one being out in the public for anyone to hear hit me so much harder than any other piece I’d worked on. Except that it was for Zoe. It was my heart laid bare for her.

Taking pictures of Matilda every day accomplished the same thing. Yesterday, she’d been on our fishing boat, wearing a pair of shades. Today she’d sat beside me on the deck, wearing a sunhat to protect her delicate…plastic casing.

Zoe didn’t reply to the tags people sent. She didn’t acknowledge my posts. And I was learning to be okay with that too.

Maybe someday I would tuck Matilda away and stop taking pictures of her. That day wasn’t today.

“I do. Even better, so does Rory.” Flynn sat down on the deck chair opposite me and kicked out his legs. In one hand, he had a breakfast burrito and my stomach rumbled.

I’d skipped breakfast to come out and write. That was a first.

So many first for me this year.

“You played it for him? Christ. What did he say?”

“He said it was utter rubbish and that’s why he was hopping on a plane to come out here.” Flynn grinned and finished off his burrito.

As if on cue, a loud knock sounded on the front door. Even back here we could hear it. “Yoohoo, anyone the fuck home in this horror movie cabin?” A pause. “Who isn’t wearing a hockey mask?”

Flynn laughed and stood, then arched a brow at me. “Please tell me you’ve seen Jason.”

“Priestley? Isn’t that bloke into hockey?”

He shook his head. “Christ, who have I let into my home?”

Before I could answer that, he went to answer the door. I waited about ten seconds and followed him.

Rory was already inside and the two were exchanging manly one-armed hugs. Then Rory stepped back and cocked his head at me. “So, he lives.”

“Yes, the rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

Thank God.

“Flynn says you’ve been wearing out pencils since you’ve been here. Good thing, since we’re behind on making the EP. Flynn’s setup isn’t quite to Ripper Records standard, but we can make do. At least to get started.”

I backed up. Not just in my head. My feet actually moved too. “No, this isn’t about that.”

Flynn slid me a look. “He’s a little gun shy when it comes to cutting the EP.”

“I can speak for myself.” I cleared my throat. “I’m a little gun shy when it comes to cutting the EP.”

Rory exhaled. “All right. We’ll not call it that then. How about prep work? How’s that?”

I shrugged. “I suppose that works. What about Deacon and Gray? Have they been summoned too?”

“Nah. I’m not looking to turn my place into a boarding house. The two of you are bad enough. Besides, this is just prep work, remember?”

“Right.”

“You hungry?” Flynn asked Rory. Before he could answer, Flynn pointed at me. “I know you are, so don’t even need to ask.”

“I’m a growing boy.”

“God help us all.”

Rory laughed. “Sure, I could eat.” He dropped his bags at his feet and rubbed his hands together. “Then we’ll get to work?”

I forced myself to smile. No reason to be intimidated, remember? I was excited to learn.

There was a very real chance I wouldn’t have love in my life ever again. Maybe it was melodramatic, but I didn’t want anyone but Zoe. So, if I was going to be alone, at least I could be a prolific songwriter and musician.

No better time to start than today.

“Sure thing.” I straightened my shoulders. “Can’t wait.”