Page 204 of Perfect Pitch

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED

Comfort food is called that not because of the ingredients but because of the people who bring it to you.

—Fab and Delish

There’s a knock on the door jamb of my father’s music room just as I finish my eighth attempt at recording the French lyrics to Madonna’s “Ghosttown.” I slipped in here earlier after Charlie left.

It took a while for me to get through the papers he gave me. A few texts stick out in my mind.

Mitch:

Beats, call me. Please. We have to talk, baby. I’m so sorry. The other night wasn’t what you think. She was trying to hurt you, your family.

Mitch:

Beats, I love you with my whole heart, my whole soul. You’re my future. Don’t give up on us. Please. Just call, text. Anything

Mitch:

Austyn, if you don’t believe me, I’ll give you the number of my boss. They’ll confirm everything. Hell, your father probably could at this point.

Mitch:

Where are you, Austyn? I haven’t heard from you—anyone.

Mitch:

I’m on my way, Beats. You hold the fuck on. Don’t you dare give up on me. I’m coming to tell you how much I love you in person.

The last one was dated the day I was admitted into the psych ward at Seven Virtues.

I can’t bear the pain roaring through me. It’s impossible to contemplate that the one person I needed was the one I was kept from. “Why?” I try to pour out my anger and hate into my music. I need to focus on something else. I’m on the edge of breaking, of saying things I don’t mean because I don’t know what to say to the man who never let me go.

I’m terrified of what’s in my heart and clogging up my mind.

The only thing I don’t fear is my music.

Earlier, Fallon sent me a text. All it said was,

Fallon:

Miss you.

But now I wonder how many other texts from her I’ve missed.

I press a hand against my stomach, which should be much larger. Thinking of how Columbia would have stretched my skin by now fills me with a combination of rage and devastation. I manage to control my reaction before I meet my mother’s concerned face. “Mama?”

“I thought you might be hungry. You’ve been working for hours.”

I sniff the air and my eyes bug out. Surging to my feet, I set my guitar carefully aside before striding for the door. There’s only one smell in the world that is that heinous and comforting at the same time—Rodeo Ralph’s Bar and Grill from back home in Kensington. “No, it’s not possible.”

“Everything is possible,” she counters.

“How did you manage to get it here?”

A small smile crosses her face. “Uncle Ethan has some business here in New York. Your father sent the jet down and he carried a small buffet on board.”

“Uncle E’s here?”

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