Page 85 of A Love Song for Dreamers

The only man Iwilllove.

Taking up a Broadway stage might have been my dream, but I have another dream that matters every bit asmuch.

Us.

20

Igetmy bike out to ride to Santa Monica, navigating the ever-present traffic on the way to the address I know byheart.

The property’s a house with ocean views—three bedrooms, white stucco, sunshine for days. When I get there, Beck’s leaning against hiscar.

“Nice of ‘em to let you come see the place again,” my friendcomments.

I pass him to get to the door, punching in the code the realtor gave me. “For the price, theyshould.”

I put an offer in last week before the house was scheduled to go on the market, but we built into the conditions that I get another look atit.

He follows meinside.

It’s beautiful, open concept with high ceilings. Too much white, but something tells me that’s bydesign.

I never pictured myself living in something sostunning.

I head through the living room to the patio on the other side, a pool and a deck with a glass wall aroundit.

“How’s it look, pool boy?” Becklaughs.

“It’s not bad,” I admit, leaning my elbows on therailing.

He takes up a post next to me, sliding his aviator sunglasses off the top of his head and up his nose. “Why do you look so bummed? There are a dozen reasons to be satisfied this week.” He counts them on his fingers. “I have a ten-episode series coming to a streaming network near you. You got your dream house, and Annie got her showfunded.”

I jerk upright, whirling to face him so fast hejumps.

“What did yousay?”

A guilty expression crosses my friend’s face. “You didn’tknow.”

My hearts aches. “No.”

Because we decided not to talk for a while, I remind myself. It was mutual.So, why does it feel likeshit?

Since she left, I’ve been trying not to think about her, but I can’t help it. I’m going about my life, but I see her on street corners, I picture her smile at night, I hear her voice whispering in myear.

When I went on tour, I promised I wouldn’t look her up onsocial.

I’ve stuck to that now,too.

But I keep looking at the photo of us in that bar inDallas.

It’s not cheating to stare at the curves of her lips in that picture, to remember how it felt to have her next tome.

I turn to head inside, Beck’s footsteps at my back as I wander through the kitchen. Even the microwave is a stainless steel thing ofbeauty.

You could make some bitchin’ Rice Krispiessquares.

I pull on a drawer, then let it slide back in on its specialhinges.

Something occurs to me. “Just tell me that douche NT isn’t the one funding hershow.”

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