Page 101 of One More Made Up Love Song
When Ivy asked me to kiss her outside Margot’s beach house, that’s exactly what she was thinking about. The importance of controlling the narrative.
“Now,” Mrs. Conway continues, “we’ve set a little money aside, so I’m not asking for financial support. But would it be shameless of me to ask for a little celebrity endorsement?”
My heart expands, and I almost get choked up. After somany years of feeling disdain from my own family, to feel like my chosen career path has only ever given them reasons to keep their distance, to have the Conways ask for help with something so personal means a lot.
They aren’t looking at me like I’m a liability—a reason their privacy will be violated. They’re seeing my platform as a benefit—a help to the good they want to accomplish.
“I would be honored to help,” I say. “Truly. Financially. Logistically. I have a lot of resources and an incredible team of attorneys and public relations people and marketing people. Anything you need—I probably have a connection to someone who could help.”
She smiles. “That would be amazing. Carina has a degree in nonprofit management, so I’m hoping she’ll eventually be able to help. As soon as we can afford to pay her something. But however much you want to be involved, we’d love to have your help too.”
We chat for a few more minutes about her vision for the foundation, then she gives me a huge hug, tells me how grateful she is to have me in her home, and sends me outside to wait for Ivy. I stop on my way and grab my guitar from where I left it in the entryway.
Even though Mrs. Conway didn’t think it was cause for concern, I still search for the news article that mentioned Daphne and forward it to Kat so she can be aware. Mentally, I need to expand the circle of people who I think about when it comes to how and when I market my career. Ivy belongs in that circle, but if this relationship goes somewhere, and every instinct tells me she’s who I want to spend the rest of my life with, her family needs to be in that inner circle too.
I pull my grandfather’s guitar out of its case and settleonto the wicker couch along the back wall of the screened-in porch.
This might be my new favorite place to sit. The furniture is worn and comfortable, the mountain air is cool and crisp even though it’s still technically summer, and the cicadas’ song is rolling through the trees like an undulating wave.
I love being at Conway Nursery as much as I’ve ever loved being anywhere, even after one afternoon. Maybe because I see Ivy in every part of this place.
I want it to be a part of me like it’s a part of her. I want to joke with her parents and hang out with her sister and kiss Ivy at the swimming hole a thousand more times.
But mostly I just want her.
I want her to be the first person I see when I wake up in the morning, and the last person I see before I go to sleep. I want to text her for no reason and kiss her because I can and insert the image of her into every love song I ever sing again.
I play through a few measures of “Golden Eyes,” nervous energy buzzing under my skin. When Ivy left with her dad, she went out this way, so I assume she’ll come back this way too.
I finish the song, then start another, this one a little less polished than “Golden Eyes,” but still mostly finished. It’ll take a few more weeks of work to lay down the final tracks, but I’m happy with where we’re headed. And it’s finally feeling fun again—easy in the best way possible.
When Ivy finally appears at the edge of the porch, my heart rate spikes and my hands start to tremble, fingers slipping off the guitar strings and making my next note falter.
She climbs the steps, then sits on the wicker couch across from me. “Something new?” she asks, tilting her head toward my guitar.
I play a few more measures. “Yeah. You like it?”
“I really do. Does it have words?”
“Some,” I say. “It isn’t finished yet.”
“It’s not the one you want to play for me?” she asks, and nerves make my stomach tighten.
“Nah, that oneisfinished.”
She bites her lip. “You gonna keep me in suspense?”
“Yes,” I say easily as I set down my guitar. I lean forward and prop my elbows on my knees.
She chuckles. “Why?”
I look up and meet her gaze. “Because I’m nervous. And I’d like you to tell me about your conversation with your dad.”
“Freddie Ridgefield is nervous?” she jokes. “I didn’t think that was possible.”
She’s not wrong. It’s been years since I’ve felt anything but adrenaline pumping through my veins when I perform. But this is different.
I offer her a pleading expression. “Please?”
