him to deal with personal drama when the opening was barely twenty-four hours away. He’d been winding tighter and tighter each day for the last week, and the last thing he needed was me showing up and dragging him into a deep talk.
Worse, I realized as I tried to make sense of the acidic feeling in my stomach, I wasn’t sure that even once he got through this weekend, he would want to talk. I might be able to get him to believe that I was truly sorry for accusing him of trying to use me for PR. But for a minute, maybe even a day, I had believed it. And he knew it.
Even if he could forgive me for that, his experiences had taught him that I wouldn’t fit in his life. That I couldn’t and be happy. And he wanted me to be happy. I knew it in every fiber. He would keep me at a distance to make sure I would be.
But that’s not what I wanted. Why could I only see that clearly now that he had given up?
I wanted Miles. I wanted nights at the piano. I wanted hours spent debating light fixtures and cocktail options. I wanted walks on the Crescent Park trail, and I wanted mornings at a table in front of Elizabeth’s Café, eating.
I wanted all of him, and his fame and its baggage...that was a feature, not a bug. It had shaped him. It had enabled him to use his wealth and experience to create new opportunities for other people. He was writing the second act of his life, scripting all of it the way he wanted it, and now he had written me out.
It would take so much more than a conversation to convince him to change his mind, and I had no idea how to do it.
I sat back down at the piano again, mindlessly picking out a tune. You make me new. The words floated through my head. I played the snatch of melody again with the words. You make me new, I’m whole with you.
It was the melody I’d been noodling on the Turnaround piano with Miles, the one whose words wouldn’t come to me, but now I could feel them almost tripping over themselves to get out, and I knew.
I knew how to get through to Miles.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I tugged at the neckline of the black strapless sheath Chloe had loaned me. “Are you sure this is okay?”
We were standing behind our building, the very muffled thump of bass leaking from the back door. As soon as we got the text from Jordan, I would slip in through the backstage entrance instead of through the kitchen, the way I always came and went.
“You look amazing,” Chloe said. “I’m not worried about that. But Ellie, are you sure you want to do this?” She curled her hands around my upper arms and held me in place, staring into my eyes.
I drew a shaky breath. “I’m sure.”
Her hands slid down to take mine. “Your palms are clammy, and I can see your pulse jumping in your throat. This looks like more than stage fright. Don’t do this to yourself. You can find another way.”
I shook my head. It had to be this. It had to be this because Miles would understand exactly what it was costing me to do what I was about to do, and he needed to see the lengths I was willing to go to.
She pulled me into a hug. “You’ve got this. You’re going to be brilliant.”
“You don’t know that,” I said. “You haven’t heard me sing. Not really.”
She gave me a small, secretive smile. “I might have snuck down a few times to listen to you and Miles. You’re amazing.”
I nodded, too preoccupied with what would happen next to feel any pleasure at the compliment.
My phone vibrated in my cleavage, and I pulled it out. It was from Jordan. You’re up next.
Chloe slipped the phone from my suddenly numb fingers. “Go time?”
“Go time.” It was almost a croak.
She looked as if she wanted to object again, but instead she pressed her lips tight and nodded, slipping her hand through mine and leading me through the back door. We took the hall past the dressing rooms, weaving in and out of performers either waiting or decompressing from their performances, then hooked a sharp right. The music grew louder as we neared the stage and the brass ensemble playing. Chloe stopped, and I did too, but