IVY MATTHEWS SKEWERS me with her gaze in the lobby of the East Vancouver studio, and my skin prickles with self-consciousness.
Why did I wear sneakers? I look like someone’s babysitter. Nerves pinch in my stomach, and I fight the urge to chew my lip.
Ivy Matthews is famous for a closed studio with as few people as possible, so we’re alone. No receptionist, no Marissa the assistant.
Right now, I wish there were others here to take the attention off me. Being her sole focus is a lot, and I have no idea if I’m messing this up or not.
This is my big shot. I can’t mess it up.
I wish Jamie was here, but he’s at practice.
“Did you eat?” Her voice is sharp and no-nonsense, such a contrast to the sweet freckles scattered over her dark skin. Her salt-and-pepper hair is pulled back into a tight bun, she’s wearing black from head to toe, and her glasses have thick, fluorescent orange frames. She looks like a stern art teacher.
I nod quickly. “Avocado toast with a poached egg.” Jamie made it this morning, insisting I eat despite my rolling, nervous stomach. “And a coffee.”
She studies me for a long moment. “Good.” She crosses her arms over her chest, and I suppress a smile as I get a flash of Jamie doing the same thing.
She asks me about my history in the music industry, and I give her a quick summary of my music training and my time on tour with Zach. I mention his name so she understands the scale of the tour, but I don’t tell her the context of our relationship.
At Zach’s name, her nose wrinkles. “I never had a good feeling about that guy. He didn’t sing like he meant it.” Her gaze slides to mine, studying me through her orange frames, and a hawk-like smile tips up on her mouth. “You, though. You mean it. I feel it.” She nods, watching me, cataloging me, and I feel like there’s a spotlight on me in this quiet lobby. “And I always trust it when I feel it.”
Even though I’m scared, even though I feel every ounce of pressure weighing on my shoulders, I want to prove her right.
I want to prove I’m nothing like him.
A feeling hits me square in the chest. This moment isn’t for him; it’s for me. I want to show her who I am, what I can do, and I’m going to do that by doing what I do best.
I’m enough, and if she doesn’t see that, this isn’t the right moment. I’ll keep trying, though. I meant what I told Jamie the other day—I’m ready to try to make music my career. Terrified, but ready.
I straighten up, pushing my shoulders back, and give her a warm smile, just like I did to Jamie the day I showed up in his apartment. I feel better already. Just because she’s intimidating doesn’t mean I have to cower in fear.
“Shall we do this?” I ask brightly, and she blinks at me before she barks out a laugh and gestures at the studio space.
“Get in there, honey.” There’s a surprised tone to her words, but she disappears through the door of the sound booth, and it’s time for me to go to my side.
“Good,” Ivy says two hours later into the microphone that plays into my headphones. “Again.”
I take a sip of water before launching into the song again. I have no idea how this is going. I’m just playing my songs and doing my best, because that is the full extent of my control. I’m trying not to fangirl over how professional this studio is—everything from the mics to the lighting to the acoustics is top quality, and I see why she loves to record here. In the control room, Ivy’s expression through the glass gives me nothing while her sound technician records. Sometimes, I see her mouth moving as she instructs him on the console. Mostly, though, she just watches.
Strung across my body, my dream guitar feels like an extension of me. The fact that Jamie bought it for me makes this moment just a little more special, like a perfect circle. This moment feels like one of those snapshots from the mental exercise Jamie had me do in the forest yesterday. It’s almost too good to be true.
“Good,” she says again when the song ends. “Next.”
I drag in a breath, gaze falling to the carpet as I decide what song to play. I settle on the one I wrote about Jamie, about how he takes care of everyone but himself.
When I play the song this time, it feels different, because now that Jamie’s mom is getting better, it seems like he’s going to be okay. He can live his own life now that she has hers under control.
“I’d do it forever if it wouldn’t break my heart,” I sing. My throat tightens as the words spill out, and my voice catches.
It feels different, because I know Jamie isn’t Zach. Things have changed between us. It’s so new and I’m terrified to think forward to the future with him, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hope.
I close my eyes, because I don’t want to see whatever Ivy’s expression is. It’s unprofessional to get emotional in the studio.
I keep my eyes closed the entire song and let myself feel all the feelings. Jamie wanders into my mind, and I smile to myself, because his encouragement is the reason I’m even here, and I’ll always be grateful for that.
“Beautiful.” Ivy’s clipped voice comes through the mic, and my eyelids fly open.
Jamie stands beside her in the sound booth, arms folded over his chest, watching me with that intense, bright gaze, and the corner of his mouth curves up. So serious, even when he’s smiling.
He’s here, and I’m so stunned and pleased that all I can do is let the grin stretch across my face as my heart flips over in my chest.
He’s here, and I fall a little deeper in love with Jamie Streicher.
“Interesting,” Ivy says in the lobby that evening after she’s decided we’re done. It’s eight o’clock and I’m starving, but I’d stay here for days if she asked me to. She studies me for a long moment, barely glancing at Jamie. “Very interesting. Thank you. We’re done for today.”
And then she’s gone, disappeared back into the control room. From her reaction, I can’t tell if I impressed her or bombed, but I don’t see how I could have done better.
“Songbird.” I feel Jamie’s gaze on my face like a brush of his fingers. His eyes are soft like velvet, and my heart squeezes as I smile at him. “You did it.”
Emotion floods me, and I smile wider at him. “I think I did.”
Something between us. All these feelings I’m experiencing for the guy who has become so much more than Jamie Streicher pulse in the air, demanding attention. His gaze drops to my lips, and it’s not just heat I see in his eyes, but more. His eyes lift to mine again, and he gives me that proud smile.
“Let’s get you fed,” he says, and I nod. “And then home.”
