Page 97 of Behind the Net

I’m confused, shocked, and so, so angry, but having Jamie here somehow makes it better. Jamie, who believes in me. Who’s furious on my behalf.

Months ago, I cried in the airport and just wanted to disappear. Tonight, though, there’s a tiny flame burning inside me. Something stubborn and pissed off.

Zach’s ruined so much, but I don’t want him to ruin this evening.

“I’m okay,” I tell him, and I think that might be the truth.

“Come here,” he says, wrapping me in a big hug, and I let myself lean into him.

My pulse returns to normal as I rest my cheek against Jamie’s chest. His hand strokes down my back, and I inhale his warm, spicy scent.

“I hate him for what he did to you.” I feel his low words rumble through his chest.

“Me too,” I whisper.

“You want to go home?”

I shake my head. “I want to stay.”

I’m done with Zach, and I’m done with letting the past weigh me down.

Minutes later, I’m filling my stomach with another order of tacos Jamie insisted I eat, and his phone lights up with a text. The background image makes my heart jump into my throat. It’s one of the photos I texted him of Daisy and me at the park, sitting on one of the giant logs. I asked someone to take it.

He made it his background. My pulse gallops. I don’t dare let myself hope. He sees where my eyes go, and he slips the phone into his back pocket before leaning his elbows on the table, watching me.

“Promise me you won’t let this hold you back. Promise me you’ll get back up on stage.”

I blink, and that old hesitance lifts its head inside me.

“Promise me,” Jamie says, and his eyes plead.

What did I say earlier? No more letting the past weigh me down.

“Okay,” I tell him. “I’ll do it.”

CHAPTER46

PIPPA

A couple daysbefore I leave to visit my parents for the holidays, I sit on the couch with my guitar, thinking about what I promised Jamie. My notebook lies open on the coffee table with a pen in the crease. My mind flicks from the song I heard in the restaurant to the way Zach laughed at me to the way he asked, “Have you met Layla?” the night of the wrap party.

I glare out the window at the moody gray sky. What a dick.

Anger knots in my stomach, and I begin to write a song about getting mad. The lyrics halt and flow as I find my footing, but within a few minutes, I have half a page of lyrics and a few chord progressions.

“Betcha thought you’d get away with it,” I sing quietly, but I cringe.

That doesn’t sound right, so soft like that.

I try again, but this time I belt it out. Sparks crack and pop under my skin as I smile big.

There we go. That’s the right feeling.

The added attitude opens something up inside me, and the words tumble out faster than I can write. I’m pissed off, but the song isn’t about being stepped on—this song is about getting back up. It’s about getting revenge but in my own way, by letting him go. Saying goodbye to the guy who hurt me, but vowing to prove him wrong. It’s about all the discomfort and pain being worth it because I’m going to be so much better and brighter than before.

Writing this song feels fucking fantastic. My eyes well up with emotion as I smooth over the chorus, connecting with the next verse, and when the song is polished enough, I set my phone on the coffee table and record a version so I don’t forget the tune. I feel like a kid again, sprinting down a hill without a care in the world. This feels right, like this is my purpose.

I love this song, and I’m proud of myself for writing it. I think Jamie would be proud, too.

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