Amina

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The Lyft was about to get on the 405 when my phone rang. Not recognizing the number, I answered it. “Hello?”

“Amina? Hey, this is Farrah.”

“Oh, hey.” Why was she calling me?

“Could you swing by the office? I've got some mail here for you.”

I glanced at my driver. “I think that's okay. I'll be there soon.” I hung up, then gave the Lyft driver the Beats and Blast address. What kind of mail did I have? Just go in, grab it, then get to the airport.

Letting the Lyft driver know to wait a few minutes, I darted into the big building. I kept shooting nervous looks around, expecting Bach or Violet to pop up any second. I felt awful not saying a proper goodbye, but they sounded so miserable in the kitchen. I was sure this was better.

“Amina!” Farrah said, waving when she saw me approaching. I jogged up to her desk, and she handed me a little box. The stamp on it said it was from LAX.

“Oh!” I gasped. “My old phone!” Fumbling it out of the box, I laughed in surprise. “Never thought I'd see this again. Thanks.”

Farrah extended an envelope to me. “There's also this.”

Turning it side to side, I frowned. There was no writing on the outside. “What is it?” I asked.

“It's from Mr. Devine.”

A tremble that didn't seem to end began in me. Clutching my old phone, I weighed the envelope in my other hand. Why did it seem heavy? Was it because I knew there was something terrible inside?

“Hey,” she said, leaning closer. “How did it all go last night?” I stared at her in confusion. “Vegas,” she clarified.

“It went... fine.”

“Really?” She twisted her mouth. “Weird. When he came through here earlier, he looked bad.”

I tapped the envelope on my wrist. “I need to go. Thanks, Farrah. For everything.” Not letting her respond, I raced out of the building. My driver eyeballed me as I dove into the backseat.

“You okay, lady?”

“Not at all.” I waved a hand, sinking into the seat. “Please, just drive.”

“You got it.”

Opening my phone, I marveled at how beaten up it seemed next to my new one. But it was still comfortable in my hand, like a pair of old jeans you never wanted to throw away. The screen was black—of course, the battery had died.

The driver glanced at me in his mirror. “Need a charger?” He pointed at the array of wires hanging from the middle console. Unsure what possessed me, I fit one into my old phone. The screen lit up; staring back at me was the website I'd left open before boarding my plane last month.

Bach Devine was still gorgeous, but after being near the real thing, his photo was a poor substitute. I ran my thumb over my screen and remembered all the things I'd worried about while sitting in the airport. No, before that—I'd been terrified since Korine showed me the message on Caffeline's Instagram.

In spite of all those fears... I'd done it.

I'd made it here.

And now it's all over with. Because inside of this envelope was a message from Bach. I already knew what it was—he was ending my contract with him. It was all he could do. What I'd heard Violet begging him to do.

Peeling apart the top of the envelope, I blew inside. The air that rebounded smelled like him. The sheet of paper was covered in his handwriting. Shivering, I began to read.

Amina,

You are who you are in your soul.

That means you're a star. But you don't have to be mine, it was wrong of me to put that on you. Hurting you was never my plan.

You once asked me what my father was like. He was caring, and he always put his artists first. I'm nothing like him. But for you, I'll try to be.

He would have paid off your debt. So, I'm going to end your old contract.

I'm not, however, going to ask that you stay with me. You owe me nothing.

You're a free agent.

- Bach

Tiny, rapid breaths escaped my lips. The paper was rattling around in my grip. I saw now that there were two other sheets—one of them was a release from my invalid Beats and Blast contract. The last paper, the writing smaller than the rest, said I was free of all obligations to Summer and Pickadillie Records.

I was free.

The mistake from my past had been fixed.

I should have been happy... relieved.

All I felt was grief.

“You alright back there?”

Sniffling, I scrubbed at my eyes. “I'm fine.”

“Uh, sure. I'll put on some music.” So you can cry without me hearing it, was his subtext.

My driver flicked on the car's radio. The end of a song blasted out, fading as we caught the tail. The host started to chat—a perky girl with an abundance of energy. “Ooookay! That was Four and a Half Headstone's latest single, Georgia Moss! They'll be playing at the SoCal Artist Awards tomorrow, I hope to see you all there! My booth will be right next to Danny Eckland's! Maybe I'll get to talk to some of their stars, or even better, the man behind all the hits, Sherman Proud!”

Sherman.

That man was stealing everything from Bach. Thinking back to the day I'd run into Sherman in the phone store, I scowled. He'd tried to steal me, too. He'd been quick with the compliments. Fluffy words were meaningless, especially coming from someone who only wanted to use me.

If I stop singing, no one can use me anymore.

The idea stabbed me so abruptly it stole the air from my chest.

Quit music? Me?

That's what you're doing, remember? I glanced at my bag on the seat beside me. You're leaving this city. You're giving up. I'd only planned to leave because I'd been sure my career was over. How could I have paid off my old contract?

Bach did it for me.

I don't have to leave.

Sweat began to pool in the crease of my stomach. My shirt stuck to me, my nerves going erratic. The reality was sinking in—Bach had set me free. I didn't have to run from my past anymore. My aunt couldn't control me. Hiding was pointless, too, since Roshio had blabbed about how I'd fled my old record company all over the news.

For the first time since I could remember, I was genuinely free.

“Turn around,” I said.

The driver glanced over his shoulder. “What?”

“I need to go back.”

“What about the airport, lady? Weren't you going somewhere?”

“I was. I'm not anymore.”

He laughed until he started to cough. “Fine, whatever. You're crazy.”

“I know.” Folding up the letter, I clutched it to my chest.

It felt good to be crazy.