Page 13 of One More Made Up Love Song
I scroll through the last few posts on her feed, but she hasn’t posted anything new in a couple of weeks.
“I don’t know,” Mom says. “She just seemed moodier somehow. Call it mother’s intuition. I just think something’s going on with her. I don’t know where she came from, Ivy. She’s nothing like you and Daphne.”
My heart pinches at the mention of my older sister. I like that Mom mentions her, that she isn’t afraid to say her name.For a long time, she couldn’t bring herself to bring her up in casual conversation because she knew she’d cry if she did. But those words, the way she mentioned me and Daphne in one breath, grouping us together, saying we’re different than Carina. It almost feels like Daphne’s still here, like Mom has some idea of what she would be like if she’d lived past her eighteenth birthday.
But Mom’s got it wrong. I’m not like Daphne at all. I might have her confidence, her pragmatic mind, but Carina is the one who sparkles like she did.
“Could she just be discouraged about the job hunt? It’s been almost two months since she graduated. It has to be annoying that she still hasn’t found something.”
“She hasn’t even been looking,” Mom says. “So that could for sure have something to do with it. But to just disappear? That’s the last thing that’s going to get her a job. You know what she said to me the last time we talked about it? She said maybe she’d forget her nonprofit goals and just run the tree farm with Dad.”
I huff out a laugh. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“That’s exactly what I said,” Mom says. “I can feel it, Ivy. She’s running from something.”
“Okay,” I say to Mom. “I hear you. I’ll do some digging and see what I can find out.”
She breathes out a sigh, like she’s physically lighter for having transferred her worries about Carina to me. “Good. Now that we’ve got that settled, how are you? How’s work?”
I glance over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of Sloane’s form standing beneath the red “Recording” light over the studio door. “Busy,” I say. “But good. Things are good.”
“Did you ever go to that interview you told me about?”
My eyes widen as I scramble to switch Mom off speaker,then move a few feet farther down the hallway. “Um, yeah,” I say, my tone low. “That didn’t work out.”
Mom’s quiet for a beat before she says, “Because you didn’t go? Or because you went and you didn’t get the job?”
I clench my jaw, hating how easily she reads me, even over the phone. I never should have told her about the stupid job listing. I didn’t end up applying—one, because I can’t imagine ever telling Freddie I’m leaving him, and two, this is the only industry job I’ve ever had. I’m not sure how well it qualifies me to work for a record label.
That was always the plan, before I started working for Freddie. To turn my degree in music business into an internship with a record label, then into an actual job through which I could work my way up to being an artist relations manager. I’m good with people. With details. And my organizational skills are next level. Working with artists, building careers, building bridges between creative types and executive types—I’m made for that kind of work.
“I’m taking your silence to mean you didn’t apply,” Mom says, and I huff.
“It’s not that simple,” I say. “A job like that, you have to know someone. You need connections.”
“Ivy,” Mom says dryly. “You work for Freddie Ridgefield. He’s one of the biggest names in the music business. You don’t think he has connections? You don’t thinkhisname on your resume would catch some attention?”
“I’m his assistant, Mom. You don’t need a degree to be someone’s assistant. You just need to know how to DoorDash and fight off paparazzi.”
She huffs out a laugh. “Ivy Conway. You do a lot more than that, and you know it. You run that man’s life. You legitimately manageallhis relationships. If that doesn’t make youan artist relations manager, I don’t know what does. If you have reasons for not applying, then fine. But lack of qualifications should not be on the list.”
I clench my jaw, wrapping one arm around my stomach. Mom’s right. I know she’s right. At least on the surface. I might have started as Freddie’s assistant, but over the past few years, more and more responsibility has been shifted to me. It might say assistant on my paystub, but I’m more of a manager, and Freddie would probably admit that.
But how do I explain that my biggest reason for wanting a new job is the same reason I don’t think I can quit? I only ever search job listings when my heart feels particularly pinched—when the inevitability of my own heartbreak feels too much to bear.
But I’ve never actually applied for anything.
“It’s not that simple,” I say, but the argument sounds weak even to my ears. It always will if I won’t admit my feelings.
I tell my mom a lot. Almost everything. But I can’t tell her this.
Saying it out loud will make it too real, and right now, denial is my only coping mechanism.
“I’m not saying you have to get a new job, Ivy,” Mom says, her tone gentler now. “I know you love what you do. I’m just saying I don’t want you to forget why you got that fancy degree in the first place. Make sure you’re livingallyour dreams. Know what I mean?”
I breathe out a sigh. “Yeah, I do. Thanks for the reminder.”
Before we hang up, Mom gives me an update about Pirate, and she sends me a couple of pictures of his cute donkey nose draped over her shoulder like he’s her literalbaby. I’m happy for the distraction—I will talk about baby donkeys all day long if it means not talking about my unrequited feelings—but I still can’t shake the sense of unease taking root in my belly.
