Page 107 of For One Night Only

your keys next to mine at home

I don’t need a diamond ring

if you’re holding my six string

I don’t even need the fame

but if you ask, I’ll change my name

[Chorus]

I walked away

when I should have held you

throw out my daydreams

I’m no longer confused

don’t need a place

with applause and acclaim

can’t say sorry enough

you’re the only one I want

can’t say sorry enough

can’t say sorry enough

can’t say I love you enough

you’re the only one I need

35

Valerie

After I publish the post, I turn off my phone for the first time in my entire life. My heart races as the screen turns dark, but then, when nothing bad happens, I’m filled with a strange sense of calm. I don’t need to know what people are saying about me anymore.

I don’t care.

I don’t owe this industry any more of my heart. I’ve given them everything, and I won’t let them tell me how to feel about Caleb. Because I know what’s in my heart. I don’t regret what I said, and I don’t regret the song.

It’s not perfect, but it’s from my soul, and it’s all I have left. Keeley, Jane, and Riker made good on helping me produce it, and we released it under Label—who, unfortunately, still owns everything I write because of my stunt. But the band agreed to send all ofourroyalties to underfunded music programs on the West Coast, and I try to take heart knowing we’ve done a little bit of good.

So instead of scrolling online to figure out what people are saying, I start cleaning my place. I scrub the bathroom, mop the floors, wash all of the linens. I even sanitize my fridge. When there’snothing left to clean around my apartment, I tend to myself. I take a long, hot shower; shave; exfoliate; and even put a treatment on my hair. I know it’s silly to think you can wash off a mistake, but the cleaning is almost a ritual. Detoxifying my life.

I don’t know what’s next, and I think that’s okay.

Instead of drying my hair, I comb it out and spritz the strands with salt spray, letting it air-dry as the sunset streams in through my windows. Trying not to think much of it, I slip into Caleb’s old The Clash T-shirt and yoga pants just as someone knocks on my door. The only people who have visited me recently are the band, but they’re all working this week, so I don’t know who else it would be. Wade?

Who I don’t expect is Caleb Sloane, leaning against the doorframe, looking like he was plucked right out of my fantasies.

He’s wearing an old, faded Lime Velvet T-shirt and gray joggers slung low on his hips that leave nothing to the imagination. His hair is a little mussed, and he’s got a duffle bag over his shoulder like he just got off a plane.

My mouth goes completely dry. “Hi.”

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