Page 118 of Wild Eyes
West’s arm reaches across Emmy and his big, calloused palm rubs over my shoulder.
“Stay.”
This is the second time he’s asked me to stay.
And so, I do.
With watery eyes and warm, happy insides, I stay in bed, listening to them breathe in unison. And the significance of the invite isn’t lost on me.
I stare at the screen before me and feel all the blood drain from my face. Feels like it might be spilling out around me onto the floor. My coffee is forgotten as my hands shake.
A Billboard Music Award nomination for the new single.
A nomination for something all my own. Something made with joy. And we haven’t even released the entire album. This is just the first song of many. The most special one.
It’s no Grammy, but I’ve never expected a Grammy. I don’t actually know what I’ve expected or what my goals have been.
It dawns on me as I sit staring at the email that I’ve been punching the clock and doing what it takes to make the paycheck. The paychecks I’ve practically signed away to my parents.
Until now. Until this.
Ford and I released the first single last month, and it blew up. It’s swampy and stripped down. “Dolly Parton vibes” is what Cora keeps calling it.
It’s not danceable. It’s me. Sitting on a stool, mic in hand, sharing my secrets. And it’s the first song I’ve ever released that I love. From top to bottom, I love it. Ford made sure of it.
Imade sure of it.
A tear slips down my cheek, but it’s not a sad one. It’s brimming with pride.
I am soproud of myself, I could burst, and I can genuinely admit this is a new experience for me.
The creak of the back door doesn’t draw my attention away. I keep reading the email over and over again.
“We are thrilled to announce…”
“What’s wrong?” West’s voice is downright glacial from across the kitchen, and when I look up at him, his eyes trace the tears on my cheeks like they offend them. “Who made you cry? I’ll fucking?—”
I hold a hand up and give him a watery smile. “Happy tears” is all I choke out before waving him forward.
He stalks across the room with a furrowed brow, and I can’t help but feel so loved in the way he rushes to defend me.
It never gets old. Him. The way he is—it’s helped me heal.
West rounds the stool and props a hand on the counter, towering over my shoulder. His breath rushes out when the words hit home.
“Fuck…” His head shakes and I know he must be reading it over again. “Fuck yeah, Sky. That’s my girl.”
He says it with such heartrending affection. Such awestruck admiration.
More tears fall as I turn to him and smile softly. His eyes brim with wonder as his arms snake around my body. He lifts me off the stool and before I know it, he’s spinning me. Hugging me. Pressing excited kisses all over my cheeks.
I squeal and give back everything I’m getting. I bask in his praise.
“That’s my fucking girl,” he whoops, and I squeeze him harder.
My number-one fan.
When he finally puts me back down, he holds me at arm’s length and asks, “How do you feel?”
