“But I do love Arson, and they’ve been so good to me.” I can hear the edge of unsureness in my voice.

  “You’re not completely set on that, though. I can tell. What is it?” Mom pipes up, and she freakily knows just when to enter the chat.

  I lift a shoulder and let it drop. “I kind of want a challenge. It feels like I need to shed my skin completely, lean in to this new life I’m going to have to pave for myself. Plus, part of me has always felt like I got that job because of William.”

  “Fuck that guy, he shouldn’t have any more room in your life.” Gigi flicks up her middle finger.

  Mom sends her a stern glare, but turns to me. “Then shed that skin. New relationship status, new job, do it all. You’re still so young, sweetheart. You deserve to lean into anything you want. You can always go back, you’re not the type to burn bridges and career paths are always left open. I say jump.”

  It’s not lost on me just how amazing my mom is. I know there are parents out there who don’t care about their kids after they’re out from under their roof. Porter flashes into my mind as an example of someone who has a parent that actually doesn’t care at all. A twinge of sadness fills my chest, because I realize now why he said he was jealous.

  I’m a fully grown woman, but I know my parents will be my safety net if I ever need them. That’s an empowering and comforting thing that a lot of people don’t have.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Rachel McAdams is grabbing things around the kitchen back on the TV screen, and it reminds me suddenly of all the stuff I left behind.

  “Do you think I should send all the stuff in the house back?” I ask this as if William is even going to give any of it to me.

  “What do you mean?” Gigi looks confused.

  “My wedding gifts. Technically, we were only married for a year when he asked for the …”

  I trail off, realizing I still can’t say that word in normal conversation without flinching. There’s something societally judgmental about admitting you’re divorced, that you have failed at love and partnership. I know a ton of people do it, even multiple times. But it feels like this black mark on my record, a stain I’ll never be able to rub off myself.

  “What nonsense are you spewing?” Mom pipes up, looking up from her book. “You will do no such thing.”

  “We aren’t together anymore and we were meant to use them the rest of our life—”

  “And he’s the one who ruined that. So fuck him, and that monstrosity of a house he made you buy. Keep your shit, I will go get it with you, and we’ll find you the cutest house up here to fill those things with.”

  “Hey, that house wasn’t all bad.” I pout, knowing the Spanish cottage-style mansion is so not my taste.

  It’s an open, airy layout, with red tile everywhere and ornate fountains on every floor.

  “That house is hideous and we all know it,” Mom confirms, sticking her nose in again.

  I throw up my arms. “Glad to know you all hated my life so much but never said anything.”

  That’s the part that sometimes annoys me most. If everyone could see it but me, why hadn’t they said something?

  “What were we supposed to say?” Gigi genuinely asks. “Anything that would have been discussed would have offended you or you would have become defensive and retreated into him. I told you before, I chose not losing you over interfering. If you had stayed with him, had his babies, I would have been their loving aunt. But part of me hoped, even if it’s killing you now, that you’d be set free. Because I can’t wait to see how you blossom in this next chapter.”

  “Well, now, I’m really going to cry.” I throw my arms around her.

  “Will you two shush with all the emotional stuff? I’m trying to finish a good chapter.” Mom huffs.

  Gigi and I just laugh. It’s the lightest I’ve felt in a while, and the magic of Christmas seems to be worming its way into my heart.

  9

  Porter

  “’Cause when you get to the fork,

  and the road turns dark,

  who will be there to guide you through?

  Oh yes, I want to be that man holding your hand,

  but first I have to earn you.

  Yes, dear, I have to earn you.”

  I strum out the final chords of the song I wrote, letting them soak my soul and leave me in a trance that nothing but music seems to do. It’s only when the guitar stops vibrating in my hand, and my throat is coated in something that needs washing out, that I look up at the blinking button on my phone and hit stop.

  A quick edit of the video and a filter for lighting, and it’s up on YouTube. My fingers crossed that the people who subscribe to my channel like this one.

  Then I grab for my water bottle, chugging it, and take a few calming breaths. Even in the depths of my bedroom, playing and singing transport me to another realm. And when I snap out of it, I feel spent and hungry, a human who has ignored his urges for who knows how long and needs to replenish.

  “Come on, girl, dinner.” I motion to Jenny, who follows me into the kitchen from where I was playing in my bedroom.

  After scooping her food into her bowl and setting it on the floor, I pull a protein bar from the fridge and eat it in two bites. My phone pings, the first few comments on my video, and I open up the app.

  One says I sound pitchy, but the other two comments are complimentary and claim they like the new song. I wrote that one last week, while I was in between train rides and trying to get warm inside the cafe. It’s a bit of a slower melody, with chords that last until the very drop of the note has strummed its way out of the guitar.

  Another comment pops up, this one from what looks to be a man’s account. He’s talking about the lyrics speaking to him about a breakup, about being ready to be worthy enough for the woman who showed him the door.

  And that’s what my songwriting is about. Well, any kind of writing, really.

  For me, writing down my interactions and feelings has always helped me examine them better. No Name, the book I wrote about being fathered by a celebrity who wouldn’t claim me, helped me purge all of the things I’d kept trapped inside for a long time. Rather than going to therapy to talk about them or relying on the friends I didn’t really have, I penned it all into a fictional tale about belonging and identity.

  My songs help me do the same thing, but if the issue is big enough that I need to tackle it from multiple angles, I’ve found myself in front of a document with a blinking cursor.

  It just happened that I sat down at my laptop the other day and opened up a Word document, much like I did for No Name. And a romance came pouring out. Or well, the first few chapters of a novel that somewhat resembled a romance. A star-crossed story about an asshole kid and the perfect girl.

  Not unlike how I saw the timeline with Madison and me. Because now that I have to see her multiple times a week, I can’t remember why I was ever so angry. I can’t swallow treating her so miserably, especially when I feel her eyes on me every time I’m playing as the train chugs along. Our late night cleanups have gotten, dare I say, cordial. Two nights ago, I even asked her to explain her job to me. It sounded like way more personal interaction with humans than I’d ever want, but that’s Madison for you. She’ll always be the woman voted kindest or most willing to help.

  And whether I like it or not, I am experiencing the fall of coming under her spell again. I may have made that first move all those years ago in a supply closet, but it was because I was drawn to her in some inexplicable way—the robustness of her laugh, something so big for someone so petite. Madison always seemed to have a genuine appreciation for how other people spoke or the way they described things, and it just made you want to keep telling her things.

  She gave me advice, unwanted, the other night. That I should pursue music no matter what other people say. She didn’t mention my father; she didn’t need to. It was like she could read my mind, see into its depths and know innately why I was shying away from going after my dream.

  How the hell, after all these years and a marriage separating us, am I still half in love with this woman? I never wanted to be before, despite my stupid feelings. What about now?

  Before I can think, because I need to get my goddamn mind off of her, I’m picking up my phone.

  “Jay. It’s Porter Kelly.”

  “Just watched the new song video, it’s real good, Porter,” he greets me, and I can practically hear his smug smile coming through the phone.

  “Are you stalking me or something?” I chuckle, because jeez, this guy seems desperate.

  “No, I just follow up-and-coming artists. It’s my job. I take a vested interest in creators I think could make it big, and you’re one of them. Is that a crime?”

  Well, when he says it like that, no. “Uh, no I guess not.”

  “You wrote those lyrics?” he hazards a guess.

  “Of course, I don’t sing other people’s songs.” To me, someone who doesn’t write their own songs shouldn’t call themselves an artist.

  There’s a huge debate about that in the industry, but I believe you have to do both to really get music.

  “They’re smooth, Porter. Very smooth. Imagine what you could do on an entire album backed by a label.” Jay dangles the carrot.

  “Own the album, if I have anything to say about it,” I grumble.

  I’m so weary about entering into a deal, even though I know it’ll be the most likely way for my music to be heard. Sure, I’m getting hits on YouTube, but I’m barely making money with that.

  “Those are all things we can talk about. You know you have much more power and control than a lot of people think. And you seem like a headstrong, grumbly motherfucker so I’m sure all of your terms will be met.” Jay laughs like he already knows me.

  I’m both pissed off and kind of happy I made this call. While I want to pursue my music, I also don’t want what comes with it. But sometimes we just have to bite the bullet and swallow the pain to get the thing we want.

  “Listen, I’ll be in New York City for a recording session next week. Why don’t you come down, and I’ll buy you lunch. Anywhere you want to go. We can talk music, deals, and I can show you a little bit of the studio. It’s just a first step, Porter, one you need to take. You’re doing yourself a disservice if you don’t.”

  His and Madison’s voices have begun eating at my conscience, and I hate how they can guilt trip me and I barely give them more than an ounce of my real emotions.

  “Fine. I’m picking the most expensive place in Manhattan.” I sound like a petulant child.

  “You wouldn’t be the first artist I’m courting to do so.” I hear the chuckle in his voice.

  We hang up and although I’m grumpy, which is my normal setting of being, there isn’t that itching fury under my skin. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’ve done something for myself that is leading me to the next chapter in my life.

  Strangely, I have Madison Goldwin to thank for that.

  10

  Porter

  I wake to snow drifts frosting my window, and a driveway piled to the gills with fresh powder.

  There must be two or three feet when I finally let Jenny out front, my boots crunching as she leaps and disappears into the puffs. It doesn’t look to be coming down any longer, because if it was, I’d pack it up and go inside until the storm stopped. But since it appears to be a sunny, yet frigid, day, I stomp to the garage and fuel up my snowblower.

  My driveway and sidewalk are small, so it only takes about thirty minutes tops to get it all plowed out and salted. Then I go over and do Trina’s driveway, she’s my seventy-five-year-old neighbor. And before I pack it up, I also hit the Meyers’ across the street; their father is away on business and she has three little girls at home.

  But instead of putting all the snowy weather items in my garage and curling up on the couch with Jenny, I load everything, including her, into my pickup truck.

  For the past two years, I’ve been going over to the Goldwin’s house with my snow blower and doing it for them. Sure, Harry could just hire a service, because lord knows, they have enough money. But I think they know, even though they don’t say it to my face, how nice it is to feel useful. I’m seldom needed or wanted by anyone, so they indulge me.

  It makes a cranky guy with a quarter-life crisis, also known as me, feel marginally more like a part of society.

  When I pull into the driveway, someone is bundled to the nines and shoveling tiny piles of snow along the edge of their massive drive. I swear, it’s at least a mile long and you can barely see the house from the street. If this person thinks they’re going to get anywhere in the next three years doing that, they’re insane.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I ask as I hop out of my truck.

  Jenny pops out behind me and begins romping in the snow again. Good, she can turn someone else’s lawn yellow.

  Madison’s face is ruddy and red from the cold, but, Christ, does she look like a goddamn snow angel. Bow lips, that red button of a nose, piercing green eyes the color of fresh spring grass, the small beauty mark just above the right side of her upper lip. I want to take her inside, undress her and warm every inch of her skin up. I want to wrap her in a blanket in front of some enormous cabin fireplace and do unspeakable things to her while the flames burn behind us.

  Fuck, when did these thoughts start again? I’m now standing in the ice-cold driveway of her parent’s house sporting a full-on boner. It’s a damn good thing I have a parka and snow pants on or else I’d be tented for the world to see. As it is, my cock presses sharply into all the thick materials, begging me to follow through.

  I haven’t gotten laid in a while, that’s all. Has nothing to do with my high school hookup shoveling her driveway in below freezing temps with an outfit on that reveals less than my grandma at her eightieth birthday party.

  “Um, trying to clear this snow? Is this a trick question?” She cocks her head to the side. “Actually, what’re you doing here?”

  I tap on the back of my pickup, indicating the big orange snow blower in the back. “I come by when it snows and clear this for your parents.”

  A beat of silence passes.

  “You snowblow my parents’ driveway?” She looks dumbfounded.

  “Yeah.” I climb up onto the truck and start to bring the blower down.

  “Like, every snowstorm?” Her voice is incredulous.

  “Yeah.” I take out the fuel and make sure I have enough for the large area I’m going to have to clear.

  “Why? I mean, do they pay you?” Madison has now dropped her shovel.

  “No. I do it for free.” I chuckle, loving this back and forth.

  “Just to be nice?” And now she’s studying me like I just told her I come from an alien planet and raise three-headed chickens up there.

  “Yeah, I do my neighbors’ driveways too.” I shrug, bending down to try to start the blower.

  “Wait a damn second!” she exclaims, and I freeze.

  I’m pretty sure this is one of a handful of times I’ve heard her curse, and I’m not missing whatever tirade she’s about to throw at me. So I straighten, not turning the thing on just yet.

  “And you have a golden retriever?” I swear, Madison is mystified as my dog comes up to greet her.

  “That’s Jenny. Don’t encourage her, she’ll never leave you alone.” I glare at my dog, who is currently trying to adopt Madison by way of snowy snuggles.

  Traitor, I try to tell her with my eyes.

  Jenny just wags her tail and nudges her nose deeper into Madison’s hip. To her credit, Madison looks absolutely delighted to be petting and loving on my dog, which sends this uneasy warmth cascading through my stomach.

  “Who the hell are you? And what have you done with Porter Kelly?” She’s smiling at me, a brilliant dazzle against the blinding white of the snow.

  I could answer her sarcastically, make a joke out of myself and mock me in the way we know I’m both good at. I could not take her seriously and play it off, turn the conversation around and keep it moving.

  But part of me doesn’t want to.

  “The Porter Kelly you knew grew up.” I hold her gaze, my blue clashing with her green, and that spark we’ve always had goes haywire.

  I’m surprised it doesn’t shock the electricity lines down on the street, sending the neighborhood into a blackout.

  Those blond waves, peeking out from under her white pom pom knit hat, move as she shakes her head. “You really are full of surprises.”

  “Oh, yeah? Like what? I think this is the first time anyone has ever called me surprising.” My lips twist in an amused sneer.

  “I mean, you wrote a book. I always thought you hated English.” Madison chuckles, the red dot of her nose too cute right now.

  I shrug. “I did. I hated school in general. My brain just never worked like that. But one day I just sat down at the advice of a therapist and wrote it all out.”

  “You went to therapy?” She perks up. “Did it help?”

  Shaking my head, I toss another shovel of snow over my shoulder. “Not for me. I guess it gave me the book so I can be thankful for that. But talking to someone never solved me, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m still the same fucked-up guy you knew in high school.”

  She worries her bottom lip, like I just dashed a hope. “I’ve been thinking about talking to someone. About the divorce. Thought it might help.”

  “Why? He’s the one who did something wrong.” I point out like it’s the simplest answer in the world.

  Madison sends her eyes skyward. “And yet, here I am, thinking about what must be wrong with me to make him walk out. Jesus, did I really just admit that to you, of all people?”

  I stay silent, biting my tongue, because there is no way I can be the guy to cup her cheek and smooth away the worry lines in her mind. I’ve caused so much of that doubt, I know it. I’m twisted up and have no idea how to repair myself, much less her. As I just admitted, therapy didn’t do fuck all for me.