Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(73)

My stomach dips at the thought of opening the music festival without Silas. I want him in the first row, and I want my surfing lesson.

There’s a tap on the door. “Car is downstairs, miss.”

For fuck’s sake, we could just walk. Everything in Darlington Beach is walkable. I miss walking places without the hulk in the hallway. “Coming,” I say, because you have to choose your battles. “Bye, Beck. Find us a movie.”

“Will do,” she says with a sigh.





Five minutes later we pull up at the Ferris beach mansion. My phone has buzzed twice during the short ride. But I don’t check it. Not yet. I want those calls to be from Silas. And if they’re not, I’ll be heartbroken all over again.

I don’t have time to be heartbroken. I need to focus. So the calls can wait.

Mr. Muscles opens the car door for me, even though I could do it myself. “I’ll wait outside, miss.”

“Thank you. This shouldn’t take all that long.” I walk up to the big oak door and knock, hoping that Brett’s parents aren’t around. They never liked me very much, and I’m sure they like me even less now.

When the door opens, it’s just Brett standing there, looking a little sheepish. It may be the only time I’ve ever seen him without a perfectly confident expression on his face, honestly.

I square my shoulders. This bodes well for me. “Hi,” I say in as friendly a voice as I can summon.

“Hi, sweetheart. It’s good of you to show up. I know I haven’t been easy lately.”

Somehow I rein in my desire to agree with him. “I’m not always the easiest, either. But I’m excited to talk about the release.”

“I’ll bet you are.” He runs a hand through his hair, and it sticks up on top when he’s done. It makes him look like a little kid and oddly vulnerable. “Come through to the sunroom and we’ll compare calendars. How does your September look?”

“It looks great if we’re going to release an album. I was going to do some more collaborating, but that can all be pushed back. I can make myself available for promo.”

“Good, good,” he says, leading me into his parents’ sunroom. The last streaks of pink light the sky. If it were still daylight, I would be able to see their million-dollar views of the beach from here.

I used to be so intimidated by this house and this family. That must be part of why I let Brett snow me for so long. I believed the lie that says rich people have the most value.

But it isn’t true. I’ve been dirt poor and filthy rich. And I’ve been the same person the whole time.

We sit down on different parts of the L-shaped sofa. I take out my notepad and a pen, but then rest it on my lap. “How’ve you been?” I ask, playing nice.

“All right. Can’t complain.” He clears his throat. “You?”

“Working. Busy. You know me, I’d rather write songs in my bunny slippers than do practically anything else.” I’m a liar, though. I’ve spent the whole summer believing that there was something bigger on the horizon for me. Something better than just success.

Brett doesn’t need to know that, though. Tonight I’m all business.

He pulls out his phone. “I’ll want to know what Becky thinks of a Thursday release. It will hurt your first week’s Billboard ranking. But we’ll get a lot of attention for jumping out ahead of everyone else.”

I jot Thursday release? on my notepad. This is so civilized.

“If we launch next month, we’ll use the short timeframe to our advantage,” Brett says. “We’ll play it up as a surprise release. And we’ll just squeak into the Grammy eligibility year.”

My heart flutters just hearing the word Grammy. “Who are we competing against in September? There must be a bunch of people pushing out albums in front of the cutoff.”

“I made a list.” He offers me his phone.

Each week in September is listed with new music launches tallied underneath. “The second week would be best, right? I’d rather go up against a big hip-hop album than those solo artists.”

“Agreed,” Brett says, retrieving his phone. “So we’re looking at Thursday the thirteenth, or Friday the fourteenth.”

I scribble that down, too. It’s only a month away! I’m getting happy chills just thinking about it. A new single, out in the world. It’s terrifying and wonderful all at the same time.

“Our in-house publicist will get a lot of inquiries,” he says. “Those will be referred to Becky. Is there any new media on your no-fly list?”

I shake my head. “Bring it. I won’t enjoy doing interviews, but I know it’s important.” I need him to know that I’m willing to be a team player for this release. It’s crucial to both of us, no matter how awkward our history makes this.

He sits back on the sofa and gives me a sad smile. “Okay. I guess there weren’t that many details after all. The grunts are going to handle the rest.”

That’s what Brett calls everyone who isn’t a CEO or a star. A grunt. I hate that term. And I hate how revealing it is about him. This man has more red flags than a communist-party parade, and I ignored them all.

But now I plaster a smile on my face, anyway. I’ve just got to get through this meeting.