Page 59 of Master Debater

A song I poured my heart and soul into, and heavily features you. I’d let her leave without giving on a single point—treating her, her song, and her dreams like they didn’t matter. After all those times I’d scolded her for putting herself down and not seeing how amazing and beautiful she was, I failed to do so when it mattered most.

She’d confessed her feelings to me, and I hadn’t even realized it through the haze of my own unrighteous anger.

So much evidence pointed to me being guilty, it seemed pointless to even plead my case.

But I couldn’t not try. Not when my entire happiness was at stake. That was another part of being free I didn’t want to go the rest of my life without.

In order to have a shot in hell of getting Willa back, I was going to have to prepare the biggest closing argument I ever had in my life. I didn’t have time to do that, not without taking time I didn’t have away from the Doxon case.

Which meant I needed to make two phone calls that involved swallowing my pride before I even made it in front of the sexiest, wittiest, and most gorgeous judge I’d ever laid eyes on.

Chapter 32

Willa

I shook out my hands as I paced the hallway in the basement of the Massachusetts Avenue building, back and forth, back and forth. I blew raspberries with my lips for good measure, and since my nerves were causing every single cell in my body to riot, I trilled my tongue and did some elevator slides.

Okay, the voice and throat were officially all warmed up and ready to go, so why was the rest of my body holding a protest? That brought about the image of my internal organs forming a picket line with raised posterboard signs. My lungs would be holding up ones that read, “My body, my choice, and I’m choosing to cut off your oxygen supply until this is over.”

My hands were saying something along the lines of, “We will not be silent, but we’re also going to tremble while the noise is getting made.” And my stomach had made a stand against borders by storming the gates and crossing into my throat’s territory.

Then there was my heart, lifting the biggest sign of all, as it had the most valid reason to protest what I was about to do. “Make war, not love. Love is bullshit.”

Recording the demo put its already shaky health at stake for sure, as it would expose the mushy weak organ far more than it wanted to be after everything it’d been through this past week.

I placed my hand over it, trying to push strength into the both of us. You let in a man, knowing full well he could do serious damage, but you also made a stand. I wasn’t sure it’d feel that way when I sang the lyrics that’d been inspired by Nate. In fact, I was sure it’d be like yanking the stitches out of a poorly sewn doll that was about to fall apart as it was. But the both of us would survive, because Donna Summer told us we could, and I had no reason not to believe her.

Rashida, who funny enough, reminded me of Donna Summer in a lot of ways, with her fabulous dark curls and powerhouse voice, stuck her head out of the recording booth. “You ready?”

My stomach did its roving thing again, bottoming out and hitting the floor this time. “The emotions behind the music are there, anyway.”

“Aww, hon,” she said, and I held up a hand, because if I let myself go there and request the comfort I needed, I’d fall apart. I wanted to hug her, and it’d be nice, but the person I most wanted to embrace and hold me wasn’t here and that circled me right back to falling apart. So I bobbed and weaved, dodging that hit for now. Later, I’d be too tired, and it’d hit me, but I had a demo to record first.

“I… Let’s… do this.” I flashed a thumbs up to make up for my faltering voice, although the fact it was already failing me seemed like a bad omen.

I forced one foot in front of the other, my gaze seeking out a trash can in the recording studio in case my urge to retch turned out to be a legit threat. Rashida introduced me, and I nodded and repeated names that immediately flitted in one ear and out the other.

My rapid pulse filled my head, and through the rush of it, I thanked everyone for coming to help me make my dreams come true.

“Your pianist is running a little late,” Rashida said, and panic must’ve bled into my features, since she reached out and gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. “He’ll be here any minute. Why don’t you go on in, play with the microphones a bit, and get set up?”

On autopilot, I did as she suggested. Over this past week, we’d had enough late-night sessions that the entire story about Nate had spilled out. I wasn’t sure how much she’d conveyed to Angela, but I hadn’t heard from her. Or Nate. We hadn’t even had a run-in at the duplex, something I was as sad about as I was glad.

Not like it would stop hurting either way. Even the word pianist gutted me. If only I could tell my past self not to feature the instrument so heavily. Although, it also made it what it needed to be. Ugh.

Once again, I focused on the fact I’d stood up for myself, letting that knowledge fill up the open wound in the center of my chest. It was sort of like stuffing it full of cotton. Sure, it’d suck up most of the blood, but it didn’t do jack shit to mend the main problem.

That’d come in time. Please, please let it come in time.

I stepped up to the microphone, belting out the first notes of the song. Like when I’d auditioned for Berklee in the first place, my muscle memory took over, and thank goodness for that.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement in the recording studio, but the lights had shifted from lighting up the room to nearly blinding me. I squinted and held up a hand to shield my vision. “Is he here yet?”

“Yes,” Rashida replied. “I’m sending him in now.”

My anxiety over my pianist not showing eased, so it could skitter away to another place and worry over my part of the music yet again. The door opened, and I opened my mouth to greet Ian, who’d been practicing with me all week.

Only Nate stepped into the room instead.

---