I wake up in her bed.
Riley is stunning when she sleeps. She looks like she even dreams devotedly. It leaves gorgeous serenity on her sunlit features, her cheeks desert pink, her lips—the lips I felt everywhere last night—parted in the imitation of invitation.
Her nocturnal shifting has splayed her hair on her pillow in shimmering gold. She runs hot—of course she does—so in the night she sloughs off the sheets, exposing the crests of her curves and the soft skin of her shoulders, her neck, her.
I love her.
The recognition feels inevitable—like it’s emerging from where it’s waited within me for the past ten years—yet revelatory. I don’t know how or whether I even deserve loving her. I just know I want more mornings like this one, more nights like yesterday, more of her in every single way.
I don’t have long for my feelings. With the morning sun filtering into Riley’s stylish bedroom, I watch her eyes flit open with ready excitement like it waits there even while she sleeps.
I’ve spent every moment of the past week knowing full well we might not work out, remembering our conversation in the recording studio. Even if circumstances or existential directions sever us from each other once more, the passion will have been worth the pain. Every precarious day, I feel like I’m walking the harrowing edge of us.
The thing is, it’s one of those edges where the view is stunning. Riley is my Empire State Building. She’s my Mississippi River. She’s my Grand Canyon.
Still, the love I feel when I’m with her makes me unable to eradicate certain fragile hopes. Questions I can only whisper to myself in the dark.
Is this really possible?
Will I finally get to love Riley the way I’m desperate to?
Despite the tranquil comfort of her bedroom, we can’t linger. When stylists arrive to ready Riley for the day, I don’t leave, instead staying nearby in the sunlit house. I know my presence here will start to spread rumors, but I don’t care. I’m going home tomorrow. I want to spend as much of today with Riley as possible.
When she emerges, she’s wearing a flowing white skirt with a macramé crop top. It’s eye-catching. The stylists did their job perfectly—Riley looks like herself.
On our way out the door, she sneaks her hand into mine for several furtive seconds. One short drive later, we step out onto Coachella’s dusty grounds.
We wander the festival together, checking out sets, stopping to meet her fans. With Riley’s headlining set closing out the night, we have the day to enjoy ourselves. It’s not at all like the last time we did Coachella together, and yet in some ways I feel exactly the same.
Listening to live music with Riley is almost as good as playing music with her. While we’re in the VIP section now instead of sweating it out just to secure spots in the front of the crowd, I still feel the way her heart picks up with the start of every song, still see how she can’t resist dancing to every beat. They’re reminders of how everything Riley’s earned, every headline made or record set or stadium filled, started here—with her love for music.
When her handlers tell us we need to return to Riley’s trailer to get ready for her set, we leave the stages early. She looks like she’s absorbing all the energy around us, the joy of the crowd, the enchantment of the music, the sear of the midday sky captured within her. When I touch her, I feel it, lighting me up from within.
It makes me wonder if I belong here. For the first time, I start to imagine setting up Harcourt Homes to run without me and helping out whenever needed. Maybe everyone was right. Maybe my place is here, on the road, onstage, in the studio. Maybe I’ve found what my heart is meant for.
When we’re nearing Riley’s trailer, she squeezes my hand. Unlike this morning, she doesn’t let go, her fingers resting entwined with mine. It pulls me into the moment, out of the future I’m contemplating.
“You really don’t have to come in if you don’t want to,” Riley says.
I look at her, finding concern etched on her features. She thinks I’m quiet because I’m dreading something, I realize. Not because of the unforeseen possibilities unfurling in my head. “Why would I not want to?” I ask.
“You have no reservations about meeting one of my exes?” Riley doesn’t hide her skepticism.
I laugh. It’s been on the schedule since before I signed on to the tour for Hawk Henderson to be the surprise guest at Riley’s Coachella performance. She’ll bring out her ex to sing together the two acerbic songs they’ve written about each other. “Riley, I’ve been watching you sing eleven songs about other men every weekend for months. I think I can handle meeting Hawk.”
The relief I catch in her eyes is quick. Nevertheless, its fleeting presence suggests situations like this probably went very differently with Wesley. The portrait Riley’s offered renders her ex-husband full of petty jealousy, the kind to smile with his hand on her waist, then sulk in silence in the limo home.
Her reaction is gone swiftly, veneered under playfulness. Riley raises an eyebrow. “If you’re sure,” she says.
We walk into her trailer. In contrast to the day’s heat, the hyper-cooled box is welcome comfort. It’s generically stylish, with a patterned rug on the floor, wireless speakers on the end table, and organic snacks near the mirror. It’s much like the greenrooms in the stadiums we’ve played. The only feature out of place is seated on the small couch.
Hawk Henderson looks exactly like every photograph of him. He’s lanky, with long, wavy brown hair framing surprisingly blue eyes. The way his tattoos peek out from his white tee looks precisely rugged, designed for the impression of workingman swagger.
When he sees Riley, he smiles with unmistakable warmth.
“Nightmare Girl!” he greets her.
Riley meets his grin with one of her own. “Mr. Maybe,” she replies with scolding flair. Hawk’s song on The Breakup Record happens to be one of my favorites. It’s one of the funniest, full of perfect lines, detailing how often in their relationship he would say “maybe,” only ever meaning no.
Hawk gets up from the couch gracefully. He and Riley hug like old friends.
I watch from the doorway, lightly surprised. I expected Hawk Henderson to exude asshole the way he presents himself in his music. Instead, the guy in front of me looks . . . sort of nice. Easygoing.
Stepping back, Riley turns to me. “This is Max ‘Until You’ Harcourt. Max, this is Hawk.”
Hawk extends his hand readily. When we shake, his smile doesn’t change. “I feel like we’re brothers separated at birth. Comrades of The Breakup Record.” He leans a little closer to me. “And we got the good songs, too.”
“Excuse me,” Riley interjects, hand on her hip. “I remember seven of them making the Billboard Top 10 in the first week.”
Hawk scoffs grandly. “I don’t mean like that. The whole album fucking rocks. I mean we have the songs that don’t make their subjects look like absolute shitheads.”
Riley’s eyebrows steeple pityingly. “Did you listen to ‘Mr. Maybe’?” There’s no venom in her voice.
“Hell yeah, I did.” He shrugs. “I come off inconstant, self-involved—everything you knew I was before we started dating. I’ll take that over being, you know, the nice guy who slowly destroyed you. Which, speaking of . . .”
I laugh. I can’t help somewhat liking Hawk Henderson.
“Wesley is coming tonight,” he finishes.
I watch the color wash from Riley’s face. “Jesus,” she manages with weak humor. “Do you guys have some sort of group chat or something? How do you even know that?”
Remembering her reaction to the flowers he sent her, I find myself in worry’s clutches. One simple bouquet in her dressing room had her looking like smashed ceramic, forgetting her lyrics onstage in Houston—which wasn’t the centerpiece set of the tour. Wesley in person here is . . . not good. The way she’s keeping her composure now is the perversely perfect testament to how well she’s capable of covering her emotions when she wants to.
Hawk grimaces with good humor. “We were at a CAA event. He mentioned it to me. That guy sucks, by the way. Of all of us to marry, you chose him? What’s wrong with me, or Max here?”
I have to look away, reminded of when I first saw Riley onstage in a wedding dress, the replica of my fantasies.
With his namesake’s keenness, Hawk notices. He gives me a knowing look.
Riley doesn’t take the bait, clearly used to his games. She stares past us, expression fixed, eyes charged, like instead of the wall of the trailer, she sees waiting crowds. “If Wesley wants to come to my set, let’s give him a show.”
Hawk grins. “Hell yeah.”
“I have to change,” Riley continues. “You need anything?”
He shakes his head. “I’ll chill with Max.”
When Riley leaves, I settle into the seat by the couch. “There isn’t really a group chat, right?” I ask.
“God no.” He laughs. “I hate most of those dudes. No offense.”
“None taken. I’m not a fan, either.”
We fall silent for a few seconds. On the couch, Hawk crosses one shoe over the ripped knee of his jeans. While his gaze on me is evaluative, there’s no judgment in it. Or, I’m pretty sure there’s not.
“So you’re the first to go in for two rounds,” he finally says. “I got to hand it to you. It’s brave. Or stupid. I never know which is which.” His self-effacing smirk feels practiced.
I know there’s no point denying it. Once you’ve been in love with Riley, it’s probably easy to recognize the symptoms in others. I meet the rock star’s calm stare. “You’re saying you wouldn’t try again if she gave you the chance?” I return.
Hawk points one lazy finger at me in concession. “Nice one. Okay, let me think about it.” He pauses, considering. For the first time since I walked in, seriousness falls over his expression, even vulnerability. It surprises me. “I’d consider it for sure,” he says. “She’s a creative genius, and it’s invigorating to be around. But”—his eyes lift—“the girl loves drama. She feeds on it.”
I’m starting to object, knowing how many critics have mistaken Riley’s epic-scale, emotionally honest songwriting for “drama,” when Hawk smiles wide.
“The problem is, I love drama, too,” he concedes. “We delighted in pushing each other, and I think it really did bring out the nightmare versions of ourselves. So no,” he concludes cheerfully. “I’m good. You clearly don’t mind it, though. I mean, you know what you’re getting into.”
I clench my teeth, not caring if his sharp eyes notice. I don’t like the way he’s characterized Riley. Like she’s something to be tolerated. Sure, she draws inspiration from her life. She feels huge, unafraid feelings. Yes, sometimes she’ll even chase a reckless idea for the thrill of it. But she doesn’t pick fights or push people just so she can spin songs out of screaming matches.
The fact that Hawk thinks she does tells me why Riley really ended things.
Hawk shifts on the couch. “Did I touch a nerve?”
“No. It’s fine,” I reply. “You’re right. I know what I’m getting into.” I wish I could gloat that I know her best. I wish I could claim some secret supremacy because I knew struggling-songwriter Riley, the girl none of the celebrity men in her life knew. I knew the real Riley, I want to say.
Except it isn’t true. The famous Riley is the real Riley. I know it. I think Hawk knows it. I have nothing except hope that I’ve managed to figure out Riley’s soul in ways no one else has.
The grin Mr. Maybe gives me now is not magnanimous. “You have it bad,” he comments. “I get it. I really do. I look forward to hearing the next song Riley writes about you. Hey, it might not even be a breakup song this time.”
I smile politely despite wishing I’d taken Riley up on her offer of my own trailer. It’s not that I care about Hawk’s opinion. I don’t. What he said isn’t far off from what Riley and I decided in the recording studio. If all we get out of our new relationship is “Heartbreak Road”—four verses and one chorus of consolation prize—we would be okay.
No, what’s silenced me is how his words have made me imagine how I’ll really feel if everything ends with Riley for the second time. If I’m left with nothing except the souvenir song we recorded when we were us. In this trailer, the truth comes over me like the rising shrill of guitar feedback.
I won’t be okay.
While I don’t want to be just her next breakup song, I’m worried Riley’s mindset is different. Because if she’s okay with just a song, then she won’t fight for us. Not for real. We’re facing daunting pressures—her music and my work at Harcourt Homes, the impossible-to-ignore presence of the press, the nasty shadow of the exes who remain intertwined with Riley’s legacy. In the midst of everything, we’re going to have to fight for us.
It’s the only way we can last where twelve relationships before now—twelve great, gutting songs—didn’t.