Page 97 of Sweet Escape

Or maybe that’s a lie.

Maybe I miss him just as much as I knew I would, and that’s why it’s so hard.

I thought that now, four weeks after coming home from Rosewood, I would have been able to move on. I heard inSex and the Citythat it takes twice as long to get over someone as it did to fall for them.

I call bullshit.

Quite a few times I’ve found myself lying in bed at night and thinking back to the time we spent together. I’ve lost myself in memories of his mouth between my legs, bringing myself to the peak with my own fingers as a mediocre stand-in.

But I’ve also stared out at the water, thinking about that conversation we had sitting in the back of his truck after Theo came to town. Or about that time we spent wandering through the vineyard, the stupid grape game, and all the silly banter.

I’ve tried to convince myself that it wasn’t as good as I remembered. That I’m waxing poetic about a fling I had on vacation, which is much easier to fixate on than the real problems you face in normal, everyday life.

Doesn’t stop me from daydreaming about him.

Or imagining him coming down to LA, like a white knight, showing up to declare his love in some kind of grand gesture.

But it’s a foolish dream.

I told Memphis I wasn’t interested in things moving forward. I told him that I needed to come here and he needed to stay there.

I thought it would be foolish to try and turn us into something more. To allow the very big feelings I felt for him to continue once I left.

But it looks like it doesn’t actually matter what I thought, because those feelings and emotions have continued anyway.

Leaving Rosewood was supposed to be enough to help me move on.

But it wasn’t.

Instead, I still feel all those things, plus the twinge of regret.

“Look, I think if we can adjust the way you’re singing that last word at a higher pitch ... if you drop low instead, I think it’ll be really killer,” Richie says into the mic that pipes into my headphones.

I nod. “Yeah, let’s try it again.”

The music we recorded when I was in the studio last month filters through, starting a little bit before the bridge. I wait for the beat and when I hear my cue, I start with the same lyrics I’ve sung almost ten times now. But this time, I finish the last line on a lower note, dropping down instead of going up.

Richie cuts the music and puts both arms in the air. “That’s it, baby! Perfect! I’m gonna send it over to Jonas.”

I smile and tug off my headphones, thrilled that we’re finally wrapping “Sweet Escape.” I thought we finished it during my last few days in the studio, but Jonas said he felt like it was missing something and sent me back to rerecord.

“It doesn’t have that same angstysomethingthat you had when you sang it that first day in the studio,” he told me. “Get that back.”

Of course, after Gigi’s call yesterday and spending my evening thinking about Memphis, about the connection we had that I still can’t let go of, I finally broke down and did the thing I swore I wouldn’t ever do.

I called Murphy, convincing myself itwasn’tbecause I wanted to hear about Memphis.

I asked how she’s doing. How the vineyard’s doing. How things were going with Wes.

But my friend could see through the very flimsy conversation.

“Just ask me,” she eventually said.

I sighed. “How’s Memphis?”

“Really good, actually.”

Something twisted in my gut. Not that I wanted him to be pining or depressed or anything stupid like that.

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