“PIZZA,” I SAY to my mom, loading up our grocery cart with frozen four-cheese pies, “should be one of the major food groups.”
She snorts, riffling through the pile I’ve already contributed to the cart. “Along with bite-size Snickers and ice cream?”
“Hey! The pizza’s whole wheat and the ice cream’s organic.”
My mom shoots me a look. “This is why I still do the shopping for our family.”
My phone rings just then, and I dig for it in my purse. Anita’s name flashes on the screen, and I start to wander away, but not before I catch my mom putting my pizzas back in the freezer.
“Bird, I have Billboard news,” she says, getting right to the point. “Your debut single is number three on the Hot Country chart, and you’ve broken the top twenty on the Hot 100.”
“Really?” I ask breathlessly. “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe it.”
“We’re all very excited,” she says, her nasal accent and deep voice making her sound anything but, which makes me laugh out loud.
“Oh, Anita, that’s the best news,” I say, nearly skipping down the aisle to help a short lady who can’t reach a can of soup on a high shelf. She smiles her thanks, and does a double take as if she recognizes me, but I wander over to the next aisle before I know for sure.
“And that gorgeous music video we shot?” she continues, pausing for effect. “It just hit one million views on YouTube.”
“Shut the front door!” I shout into the phone.
But then the screen goes black, and a message appears: Call Failed.
“Grrr…” I try calling her back right away but get a busy signal. She’s obviously trying to call me back, too.
“What’s all the fuss?” my mom calls, pushing the cart toward me.
“Mom, it’s crazy! My video just broke one million views, and my song—”
The phone rings again, and Mom waves her hand, telling me to go ahead. “Anita, I’m so sorry,” I say excitedly.
“Um…” A low voice comes over the line. One I know, but one I’m shocked to hear. “It’s Adam.”
My mouth falls open, and I turn away. I feel my stomach flip over like a flapjack. I walk quickly down the aisle and out of Mom’s earshot.
“Hello?” he asks.
“Adam,” I finally say, ducking into the cereal aisle. “Hi. I thought you were my publicist. Anyway, hi.”
“Hi,” he says. I can tell he’s smiling, which makes me smile even bigger. “It’s good to hear your voice live. Lately I’ve only been hearing it on the radio.”
“Oh my gosh, I know,” I say with a shiver. He is so sweet. “I’ve been crazy busy.”
“Well, I think the work’s paying off,” he says. “I hear your song everywhere.”
I feel myself blush as I trace the letters F-R-O-S-T-E-D F-L-A-K-E-S over and over again nervously. “Yeah, Anita was actually just telling me that my single made it into the top twenty on the charts.” I pause, moving on to the Froot Loops and tracing those letters. “I can’t believe it.”
“Wow,” he says. “Well then, we’ve got to celebrate.”
OMG! OMG! I am screaming in my head.
“That’d be awesome,” I say calmly instead.
“I’m playing Nashville next week but coming up today to spend some time with friends. Would you want to grab a bite to eat tonight? I mean, if you don’t already have plans or anything.”
I chew on my lip, frowning. I’m pretty sure Adam Dean just asked me on a date, and now I have to freaking say no. “I can’t. We’re behind on my album and working around the clock. I have to go to the studio in an hour and every day and night ’til it’s done.”
“Well then, how about breakfast? Can you let me take you out for the best pancakes east of the Mississippi?” he asks.
“My mom’s?”
He chuckles. “Okay, the second-best pancakes, then. Can you meet tomorrow morning?”
“Yeah, that’d be awesome,” I say. “But, Adam, it’d have to be crazy early.”
“Well, I’m not a morning person,” he admits, “but I’d like to think I’ve always been a Bird person. And for you, I will set an alarm.”
I get goose bumps.
“Okay, sounds great,” I say, trying to play it cool while my heart is racing a mile a minute and I feel like I might burst out of my own skin. “So six thirty won’t kill you?”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say, disappointed. “If it’s too early—”
“Bird, I’m joking,” he says. “Six thirty, bright and early, no problem. It’s actually perfect because we might miss the line that’s always wrapped around the block.”
“Oh, look at you, Mister Silver Linings,” I tease.
“I try,” he says. “So six thirty—wow—tomorrow morning. It’s a date.”
“It’s a date,” I confirm, grinning from ear to ear. I doubt I’ve ever looked so forward to breakfast.
“Who was that?” my mom asks from behind me as I end the call.
“Mom!” I shout, spinning around. “You scared me half to death.”
“Sorry,” she says. “I thought you knew I was here.”
“No, I did, I just—” I stop, totally flustered. “You surprised me, that’s all.”
I flip my hair back and push the shopping cart, scanning the aisle with great focus. I need to get it together so I can ask my mom about this thing with Adam in a casual, no-big-deal kind of way. I’ve never been on a date before, and I’m sure my dad would go berserk under normal circumstances, but since it’s Adam and since it’s breakfast, I think I can get the green light from my mom without even bothering dear old Dad.
“So what else did Anita have to say?” she asks.
After the conversation with Adam, I’d nearly forgotten. “She said my song is number three on the Hot Country chart and broke the top twenty on the Hot 100!”
“Oh, honey, that’s wonderful!” she cries, hugging me right there in the canned-goods aisle. “I am so proud of you.”
“Thanks,” I say, letting her hug me once again.
“Is that why Adam called, too?” she asks, raising her eyebrows suggestively.
I blush and push the cart again. “Yeah. Actually he wants to take me out to breakfast to celebrate. That’s cool, right?”
“Sure,” she says. “Maybe Jacob would want to join you guys.”
My eyes bulge, but I play it cool. “Maybe,” I murmur indifferently.
I glance over at her and notice she’s suppressing a grin as she double-checks her grocery list. I think we both know that I’ll accidentally forget to invite him.
“Are y’all ready to order?” the waitress asks, yawning. That, of course, starts a chain reaction, and we all laugh through wide-stretched mouths. Any other day, I would’ve snoozed at least three times if my alarm had had the audacity to go off at five o’clock in the morning, but today I sprang out of bed, having barely slept at all.
After I left the studio last night, Stella came over and helped me pick out a first-date outfit. I needed something that would look nice, without making it look like I was trying too hard. At the same time, we had to keep in mind that after breakfast I would be in the studio for at least twelve hours, so I needed to be comfortable. We ended up choosing straight-leg dark jeans, a soft blue fitted T-shirt from the Bluebird Cafe, and a slouchy ivory sweater I borrowed from Stella. Dressing for breakfast was a lot more complicated than I could ever have imagined.
But part of me, a tiny silly part, wonders if maybe Adam didn’t put the same amount of effort into our date. I mean, I know he didn’t call his best friend over and take pictures of himself in ten different outfits and then scroll through them until he’d found the perfect combination, but his normally shaggy hair has been trimmed, and it looks like he nicked his neck shaving. Who shaves for breakfast at dawn? Unless you really care how you look to your dining companion. And this dining companion thinks the one sitting across the table from her looks good enough to eat.
The thought makes me blush, and I snap back to the moment, ordering chocolate-chip pancakes and then gawking at Adam after he orders sugar-cured ham and eggs.
“What?” he asks.
“You can’t seriously come to the Pancake Pantry and not get pancakes,” I reprimand him as he passes the menu to the waitress. She hurries away, her tables filling up quickly.
“It comes with buttermilk pancakes,” he assures me, his sleepy hazel eyes still the most gorgeous on the planet. “And hash browns. I’m a growing boy.”
“Where do you guys put it all?” I ask, shaking my head. “Jacob eats like a monster, and he’s still as skinny as a rail.”
Adam shrugs. “Powerful genetics, I guess.”
I grin. “You’re ridiculous.”
He leans forward. “What’s ridiculous is that you have a song out on the freaking radio,” he says, pounding the table with both hands. The couple at the table next to us glances over at the sound of our silverware clattering.
“I know,” I say. “It’s insane. It’s—it’s unbelievable, really.”
“It is insane,” he concurs, “but it’s most certainly not unbelievable.” He pauses for a second. “You know, you’ve always had this quality, Bird. You just pull people in, and I think it’s because you don’t even realize you’re doing it.”
I blush. “Thank you.”
He nods, starts to say something, then closes his mouth again and breaks eye contact. He grabs the sugar bowl and focuses on arranging all the sugar packets by color while I look around the restaurant, taking in the exposed wood beams and the signs on the wall. I’m always a little keyed up around Adam, but being here with him one-on-one takes the nerves to a whole new level. As the silence between us grows, I start to worry that, off the road, we won’t have anything in common. Suddenly, I want to order a Coke.
“How do you like your label?” he finally asks, setting the sugar bowl aside.
“I like them a lot,” I answer, carefully removing one packet of Splenda and pouring it into my steaming cup of tea. “Dan’s great and—”
“He’s the one who set up the Bluebird for you?” Adam interjects.
I twist my mouth into a frown. “No, actually that was this other guy from GAM.”
“Great American Music wanted you, too?” he asks, incredulous. “That’s the biggest label in country music.”
“Yeah,” I say, “but he was really flashy, and the big label was overwhelming. With Open Highway, it feels more laid-back. And Dan is really focused on making my music honest and not, I don’t know, sell-outty.”
Adam cocks an eyebrow and grins. “ ‘Sell-outty’?”
I smile crookedly. “You know what I mean.”
“So you get a lot of say with things, then,” he says, nodding. “Like, nobody’s taking your sound and twisting it or changing you to fit their mold. That’s cool.”
I nod. “Yeah, it is cool,” I say, although I don’t mention that Dan and Anita didn’t want me playing Maybelle in the music video. Nor do I tell him that it was pretty hard to convince my label to let my own family play on the record.
The waitress arrives with our food and lays the spread out on the table between us, my chocolate-chip pancakes stacked all the way up to the heavenly place from which they came.
“There’s this new country singer, Kayelee Ford. Have you heard of her?” Adam asks. I shake my head. “She just signed with GAM, and they’re fast-tracking her, pulling out all the stops.”
“Oh?” I reply casually, though I immediately think of what Randall said at my release party and wonder if this is his new mystery artist.
“Anyway,” Adam continues, pouring ketchup all over his hash browns, “she’s doing this single release party in a couple of weeks, and I got a gig to play in her band.” He grins up at me.
“Wow,” I say, shocked. I nod and fake a smile. “That’s great, Adam.”
“Thanks. I’m pretty pumped.”
I concentrate on my pancakes again, really pouring on the syrup. I know I shouldn’t be jealous—I don’t even know this girl—but I am. “So, just curious, why would you want to play in her band? You’re a solo act.”
He shrugs. “Yeah, I want to do my own music,” he agrees. “But life on the road is tough, and, I don’t know, it’d be nice to put down roots.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised. If Adam were in Nashville, we could see each other all the time. We could play together, maybe write together. We could, I don’t know, have more breakfast dates. Or regular dates.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “I guess I’m kind of tired of living out of my truck, being on the road all the time, just playing covers and not really making a name for myself.” He looks up at me and smiles. “You inspire me, Bird. You make me want to write more, maybe try to put together my own album. I have a friend who’s thinking of renting a place in East Nashville. I thought I might stick around.”
“That would be great,” I say enthusiastically.
“Yeah, so if I play with Kayelee, I could get a steady paycheck while I network,” he goes on. He points his fork at me before shoving another bite in his mouth. “You guys have a similar sound, actually. And she’s tall like you, but blond.”
“Interesting,” I remark, feigning casual interest when really all I want to do is look up this girl on the Internet. I’d bet my boots this is Randall’s new girl.
“Yeah,” he says, his mouth full. He swallows before finishing. “But way different backgrounds. I think her family’s pretty rich.”
“Must be nice.”
I take a bite of pancakes and consider this girl Kayelee… and Adam… making music together. I watch him eat, take him in. Of course she’ll have a crush on Adam. He’s gorgeous. His eyelashes are long enough that they nearly touch his eyebrows, and his lips are full and pink. He has that baseball-player build where he’s not too skinny but not too bulky, either.
He glances up at me between bites and smiles as he chews. Caught staring, I look down and take another bite of my own food, my face flaming.
“Want to try the ham?” he asks, tilting his plate toward me.
I shake my head, take a drink of water, and gather my thoughts. “You know,” I say, “we still have a couple of songs to lay down on my album. Maybe you could play on one.”
As soon as the words come out, anxiety takes hold.
Adam looks floored. “Seriously? I hope you don’t think I was fishing—”
“No, of course not! It would be fun. I’d love to have you on the album.” I fork another bite, realizing I’ve gone and done it again, just like when I promised Dylan. I remind myself that it eventually worked out with my brother. I know that once Dan hears Adam’s music, he’ll totally be on board.
“Um, it’d be awesome,” Adam finally says. “I mean, if that’s what you want. But Jacob told me your producer is only using session veterans for your debut.”
I know this is my out, my chance to take back the offer until I’ve cleared it with Dan, but the thought of Adam making music with a girl who looks and sounds like me is enough to spur me forward. “You’re a veteran,” I remind him. “I think we’d sound great together. And besides, it’s my album.”
What am I doing? I pop another huge forkful of pancake into my mouth to shut myself up.
Adam nods, thinking it over. “Okay,” he finally says. “Cool. Thanks, Bird.”
“Y’all doing okay over here?” our waitress cuts in, splashing water into our glasses as she scans the rest of her section.
We both nod and she’s gone again in a flash, completely unaware of the water pooling on the table and heading toward my lap. I scoot my plate away with one hand and reach for a napkin with the other, my eyes on the ice-cold water that has already drenched my place mat. But instead of grabbing a napkin, my hand lands on Adam’s as he leans forward in an attempt to help clean up the mess.
And it’s as if I’ve touched a live wire. I look up at him quickly. His eyes meet mine. Our hands freeze in place, both of us clearly feeling the electric pulse. Adam snaps out of it first, blinking and sliding his hand under mine for a couple of napkins. I break the mini-trance as well, breathe again, and scoot over in the booth as he sops the water up just in time.
“Thank you,” I say, reorganizing everything on my side of the table so I don’t have to make eye contact right away.
He clears his throat. “No problem.”
And then a flash goes off in my face.
“Hi,” comes a small voice to my right. A chubby young girl is standing at our table holding an iPhone, looking equal parts nervous and thrilled. “Are you Bird Barrett?”
I blink, look at Adam, then turn toward her again. “Yes,” I say slowly.
She gives me a shy smile. “Could you please take a picture with me?”
It’s an “aw” moment. It’s the stuff dreams are made of. This little girl is, well, my first fan.
“I’d love to,” I say, shifting over in the booth and patting it so that she can sit next to me.
She turns around toward her mother, who’s been waiting a few steps behind, and we pose for the camera. The mother checks the snapshot and nods, indicating that it’s great, but Adam stops her.
“Wait, want me to take one of all three of you?” he asks.
“Oh,” the mother says, suddenly conscious of how she looks as she fluffs her hair and straightens her scarf. “Well, if you don’t mind.”
She crouches next to her daughter for the picture, and then they ask me to sign their complimentary Pancake Pantry matchbooks. Before I know it, a few other folks wander over from their tables, asking me to sign their napkins and place mats, all of them saying really nice things about “Notice Me.” I can’t help but think, Boy, have they ever.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to Adam at one point when he shovels in a bite full of eggs and ham before taking the next camera phone.
He shakes his head. “Are you kidding? I’m perfecting my fallback career as photographer to the stars!”
I giggle and pose with the next little girl and her brother, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. Their mother, who hovers to the side like all the moms have at first, joins us for the second shot.
But as much fun as I’m having, I want to get back to being alone with Adam. Besides that, my phone says it’s seven thirty and I have to be at the studio by eight.
“Check?” the waitress asks, appearing out of nowhere with to-go boxes.
“That’d be great,” Adam says, reaching for the bill at the same time I do. He waves me off. “This one’s on me, Bird.”
“Fine,” I say, “but you have to let me buy next time.”
He grins. “Next time, huh?” I look away, take a drink of water, and don’t even try to stop the nervous tapping of my foot under the table. He laughs softly. “It’s a deal.”
As Adam thumbs through the cash in his wallet, I channel all my giddiness into one more picture with another fan. Walking out, I see flashes in my peripheral vision. It is in this moment, ducking out of a restaurant as unassuming as the Pancake Pantry, that I realize that recording artist Bird Barrett may end up being just as big as Dan and Anita promised.
“Wow,” I remark to Adam. We walk briskly up the street on an adrenaline high. “That was something else, huh?”
“Yeah,” he says, fumbling in his jeans pocket for his keys as we shiver outside his truck. “I’d say things are about to change a whole lot for you, Lady Bird.” He opens the squeaky passenger door and gestures for me to get inside, ever the gentleman. “In fact, pretty soon, you won’t want to be seen in this old camper-top pickup. I’ll have to rent a limo next time.”
I make a face as he shuts the door. “Yeah, right!”
I reach over the seat, unlock his door for him as he walks around the front, and pray that the heater warms us up quicker than it did on the way over here.
“A limo,” I scoff, blowing air into my cupped hands as he pulls out of the parking space. “Please.”
“Jacob and Dylan said y’all had one for the release party,” Adam comments. I look at him, his profile so handsome as he leans over the steering wheel to wipe at the windshield.
“Yeah, but that was for a big event,” I say. “And anyway, the label sent it.”
“Ah,” he says, nodding. “Where to?”
I give him directions to the recording studio, and he drives, granting me control of the radio. He immediately recognizes an overplayed Luke Bryan song, but then when I change the channel, he surprises me by naming a Katy Perry hit after just a few beats. “Impressive,” I say. “But how good are you?”
He smirks. “Try me.”
We scan the stations, seeing who can name each song and artist first. He completely throws me off when he names a hip-hop song I’ve never heard by a rapper who seems pretty angry at the world.
“You win.” I laugh. “The studio is just there, on the corner.”
“Cool,” he says, pulling up to the curb. The sun has made its way from behind the sleepy clouds, and it looks like it will actually be a gorgeous January day.
“Thanks again, Adam,” I say, reaching down for my to-go box of pancakes. I place my other hand on the door handle but don’t open it. I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I have five more minutes until I have to be inside. Or maybe it’s because the heat is finally really blasting, and I don’t want to face the cold again. Or maybe it’s because I’m with Adam, and I don’t want breakfast to be over yet.
“You know, Bird,” he says quietly, the cab very cozy and the radio low, “I remember the first time I met you. We were playing some barbecue joint in Louisville, and it was only my second gig ever, so you can imagine how nervous I was. And I looked out into the crowd and saw you sitting in a corner booth with your family.” He shakes his head and grins. “But while all of them were clapping or bobbing their heads or whatever, there you were hunched over the table writing like a maniac in that notebook of yours.”
I try to think back. “I was probably writing a song.”
“Well, whatever it was, I was convinced the whole time that you were telling your diary how god-awful I sounded.”
“What?” I exclaim.
He laughs. “I know! It’s crazy, I know. But, you know, nerves.”
“Yeah, I do know.”
Nerves. Twitching, pulsing, tingling, lighting every part of me on fire. Like in this very moment when all I can think about is Adam’s hand accidentally touching mine at breakfast, how he left it there for a second before pulling away, and how close he is right now. Nerves that notice the windows fogged up and nerves that can’t hide themselves as they set my legs bouncing. Nerves that usually lead me to say something stupid.
“I should go,” I say, checking the time on my phone. “I can’t be late.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Thanks for meeting me this morning.”
“Thank you for breakfast,” I say, reaching in to give him a hug.
But as he moves toward me, he doesn’t lean to the side like I do. He lifts a hand to my face, briefly, stopping all time and action, and then he tilts his head and brings his lips toward mine. And it’s happening. My first kiss. My first kiss with Adam.
His full, soft lips meet mine, and he holds them there, gently, for just a moment. Nothing crazy. No tongue or smacking or anything other than a sweet, perfect first kiss. Not anything other than sweet, perfect bliss. My heart is writing songs.
When he pulls away, I open my eyes and sink into his, the dark green-and-brown swirls there pouring over me and melting me to my core. He doesn’t say anything, nor do I. He just brushes a thumb across my cheek, and I try with all my might to keep leaning toward him as if the seat buckle weren’t digging into my hip.
My phone rings. The clock starts to tick again. The world turns once more.
“Probably Dan,” I whisper without checking my phone. I lean back over to my seat, take a breath, and slow my spinning mind. “I’d better get in there.”
He nods. “Cool, yeah, of course,” he says.
“Thanks again for breakfast,” I say, holding up my pancakes.
He grins. “My pleasure.”
I reach for the handle again, and this time pop the door open. Adam leans across the seat as I get out. “Hey, Bird?” he calls. I bend down to look back in, pushing my long red locks out of my face. “I play the 5 Spot on the twenty-third if you want to come,” he says hopefully, almost bashfully. “I mean, I’d really love it if you were there.”
I nod furiously. “Yeah,” I promise. “Yes, totally. I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Sweet,” he says, looking adorably relieved. “It’s not for a couple of weeks, but I’ll text you.” I smile, stand back up and shut the door, then give him a little wave as I walk up the sidewalk toward the studio.
And like a total cheese ball from a dumb romantic comedy, I cup my hand to that spot on my face, the place his thumb caressed while we finally kissed, and I hold his warmth there, wishing I had time for just one more.
“I think we got it,” Jack says into my headphones. “Take five, and we’re moving on.”
I nod and give the guys in the booth a thumbs-up. It hasn’t really felt like work today. Ever since Adam dropped me off, I’ve had the energy to do take after take. Jack even commented that my voice sounds better than ever. I guess that’s what happens to a girl when the guy she writes songs about finally does notice her.
Then Dan shows up, pushing the door open and motioning for me to leave the booth and join him in the hall. Surprised, I take my headphones off.
“Hey, Dan,” I say timidly, hoping that he’s in a good mood.
“Bird! You sound terrific. Just checking in. Everything okay?”
“Good,” I answer, wringing my hands nervously. “Everything’s good.”
“Good,” he echoes. “I’ll let you get back to it, then.”
“Actually,” I say, stopping him as he turns to go. “I wonder if I can talk to you about something real quick?”
“Sure,” he says. “Shoot.”
“Well,” I start, not knowing exactly how to word my request. But Adam was right: I went with Dan because he’s all about the music, my music, and I’m more like a collaborator here than a puppet. Armed with that confidence, I pitch my idea to Dan. “It’s just—I have this idea for the song we’re doing next week. It’s got a rock feel, but it’s bluegrass, too, and I think I know the perfect guy to play lead guitar on it.”
Dan’s eyebrows arch up so high that McDonald’s would be jealous. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” I say, surging ahead. “My friend, Adam Dean? He’s this really talented musician who’s played the same circuit as my family’s band for the past couple of years, and his own music is, well, amazing, and he would kill the guitar solo, not to mention that I’m comfortable with him already, and he could even do the backup harmonies, which, since I already know him so well, will probably sound really amazing and—”
“Bird,” Dan says, shaking his head as I take a big breath. “We talked about this. We want seasoned guys on this album. We want the quality to be the highest caliber there is.”
“Me too,” I say, nodding. “That’s why I think, if you’d just give him a chance—”
“Bird,” Dan interrupts.
But I push on. “Just hear him play—he has tracks on his website—you’d see that he’d be—”
“Bird,” Dan says again.
But I can’t stop now. “The people at GAM think he’s good enough to play for their new artist and—”
“Bird!” Dan says, raising his voice and stopping me in my tracks. “We’ve already got your family on two tracks. I told you from the start that I wanted pros, and this guy, I’ve never heard of him.”
“Well, you’d never heard of me before that night at the Bluebird,” I say quietly.
Dan takes a deep breath and runs his hand over his balding head. “Bird, I’m sorry, but listen. I’m under a lot of pressure. I want Open Highway to be big. I want people to take notice. And I want that for you, too. I want Bird Barrett to be the next big thing. I want people to know you. I want you to sell out arenas, to land talk shows and tours. I want you to make it, Bird. Can you understand that?”
I swallow the lump in my throat and nod.
“I know this has all taken some getting used to,” he says, gesturing around the studio, “but really, you’ve got to trust me here. Okay?”
I nod again. “Okay,” I whisper, looking past his shoulder.
When he nods, I take that as my cue to head back into the recording booth. I need some space. I need a minute.
I grab my purse from the couch and plop down in its place. I dig through its contents, hunting for my phone so I can text Stella. Ever since getting a deal, I’ve actually found myself feeling a little lonely, and music was never like that before. For me, music was always about people coming together—that’s why the BFB was formed in the first place—and it’s killing me now that I can’t share any of this with the people closest to me.
I sigh heavily. I’m tired, I’m mad, and the cloud I was floating on when Adam kissed me this morning is evaporating. I unlock my phone and see a text waiting for me from Adam:
I can’t stop thinking about… pancakes.
I lie back on the couch and stare at the ceiling as tears spring up without warning. How am I going to tell Adam that my label doesn’t want him? Why did I open my big mouth again, anyway?
And then I remember why: Kayelee Ford. I do a quick Web search of her name on my phone. When a Barbie in cowboy boots pops up on-screen, my height but curvier, my age but prettier, I think about Adam playing music with her instead of me and let the tears fall.