Page 16 of Yours Until Forever

There are days I wonder if the universe is actively trying to see how much stress I can handle before I crumble. Today feels like one of those days and it’s not even nine a.m. yet. Mind you, I’ve always hated Thursdays. The day of the week the universe likes to whisper, “You’re almost there,” only to kick you in the shins and remind you there’s still one more day to go.

I’ve had my mother on the phone to me this morning about the anniversary party this weekend. Asking why I refuse to take James. After that torturous conversation, my agent called about theVelocity Reigncontract and some clauses the production company want added that he knew I wouldn’t be okay with. I stood my ground and refused them, but the decision has my stomach in knots. Then, as if those two phone calls weren’t enough, Sarah forgot her homework, which meant an emergency detour back home, making us late for school. If there’s a prize for the world’s most efficiently frazzled parent, I’m in the running for it.

I dash through the school courtyard, mentally calculating the minutes I have before my first work meeting. Sarah skips beside me, chattering about a science project idea involving “music that makes plants grow faster, but not Taylor Swift because Luna’s already tried that, and it didn’t work.”

When we reach the drop-off point, my gaze immediately finds Gage, a habit I’m trying not to analyze too closely. He’s standing near the entrance in a charcoal suit, looking like Wall Street meets runway. He appears calm and composed, making me wonder yet again how he always looks so unruffled by life.

Luna spots us and waves excitedly, tugging on her father’s sleeve to get his attention. I notice the way his expression softens when he looks at his daughter. It always does.

“Good morning,” he greets when they reach us.

I ignore the hint of gravel in his voice that I like a little too much. “Morning.”

After some awkward small talk about the unpredictable March weather, the kind where every word feels too loud and every silence too long, we say goodbye to the girls. I then push past the weird energy between us and direct our attention to the science fair. “I wanted to check about that email draft you were going to send me. I haven’t received it yet, and I was hoping to review it before we send it to Mrs. Liu.”

His voice carries the trace of an amused smile when he says, “I’ll have it to you by noon like we agreed.”

“Right.” I try to leave it at that, I really do, but the obsessive part of me mourns the loss of an extra eight hours to overthink every possible disaster, so I find myself pulling my planner from my bag and flipping to the page covered in color-coded notes. “I want to make sure we’re aligned on some things.” I glance up and find him watching and listening intently. “I’ve drafted preliminary exhibit layout zones based on project categories, available table space, and fire safety compliance. Plus, I’vemade a list of suggested display guidelines to prevent a sensory nightmare. We don’t want glitter bombs and baking soda volcanoes competing for attention.”

The corners of his mouth twitch, and I realize I’m doing that thing I do where I get overly specific and detailed about things most people wouldn’t even think to question.

“Layout zones and fire compliance?” he says, and there’s definitely amusement in his tone now.

“Yes,” I say firmly. “I don’t want an actual chemical reaction happening in the corner because two projects got too close together.”

“You’re serious.”

“Of course I’m serious.”

“Amelia,” Gage says, taking a step closer. “I’ve got it handled.”

“I know, but?—”

“I promised you I’d follow through, and I will.” His dark eyes hold mine with unwavering certainty. “The email will be in your inbox by noon, complete with layout zones, fire safety compliance, and display guidelines, which you can, of course, add to if I miss anything.”

I want to believe him. I desperately want someone else to share this load. But experience has taught me that when someone says, “I’ve got it handled,” what they really mean is “I’ll do the bare minimum, and you’ll end up handling the fallout.”

“Okay,” I say, trying not to sound too skeptical. “But please don’t be late. I have a meeting later this afternoon, and I’d like time to go over everything before sending our ideas to Mrs. Liu by end of day.”

He nods, his eyes still firmly on mine. “I’ll ensure you have plenty of time to go over it.”

I’m still thinking about this when I step inside my studio thirty minutes later, still feeling the echo of anxiety over notknowing if I can count on him. However, my studio is my sanctuary, and the tension in my shoulders begins to ease. This is the one place where I don’t have to be perfect, where chaos doesn’t feel like failure but like possibility.

After I divorced James, I bought and combined two condos, transforming one into a professional recording studio with state-of-the-art equipment and perfect acoustics. It’s totally separate to our living space, but close enough that I can be there for Sarah if she needs me.

I settle at my workstation, pulling up the cues for the big action sequence inVelocity Reign. I haven’t signed the contract yet, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t started working on it. The director wants something that “reinvents tension” for the climactic chase through the streets of Bangkok. I’ve been experimenting with layering traditional Thai percussion and wind instruments over distorted synths, letting the rhythm build and fracture in unexpected ways.

My studio hums with creative mess. Sheet music from yesterday’s session still litters the floor, a scattered map of half-finished thoughts, and my three keyboards form an arc around me. The vintage Moog I splurged on after landing my first big film score, the weighted Yamaha for classic depth, and the cutting-edge Roland for everything digital.

Against the far wall, a battered upright piano waits beside an acoustic guitar and a cello I haven’t touched in weeks. A set of hand drums from a trip to Chiang Mai sits under the window, half-buried beneath film scoring manuals and notebooks filled with jumbled thoughts.

It’s cluttered, but it’s mine. The only place I ever feel fully myself. The version no one else gets to see.

I disappear into the music. Times becomes irrelevant. There’s only the flow of creativity, the satisfying click when a chord progression finally falls into place, the frisson ofexcitement when a melody line takes a turn that works beautifully.

This is who I am when no one’s watching. Passionate, messy, completely absorbed.

My hair gradually escapes its neat twist as I run my fingers through it in concentration. I kick my shoes off, pace the room, occasionally singing fragments of melody or tapping complex rhythms on any available surface.

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