Page 85 of Wreckage and Rain

"I don't know what I am. I've never felt this. I walked into this club for Colt and then she took the stage and I..." He shakes his head. "I can't stop showing up."

I recognize that honesty. Raw. Unpolished. Underneath the venture-capital swagger and the jaw that could cut glass, Dominic Vargas is genuinely, catastrophically undone.

"Then show up correctly. Don't lead with money. Don't lead with charm. Learn her daughter's name. And understand that she'll take a long time to trust you, and the process won't be on your schedule."

"I can do that."

"We'll see."

Marisol comes out from backstage with a sleeping Lucia draped over her shoulder. She walks past the bar. Nods at me. Glances at Dominic with the flat, unimpressed expression she reserves for men who occupy space she hasn't invited them into.

"Night, Sam."

She doesn't acknowledge Dominic. He watches her leave.

"She didn't even look at me."

"Correct."

"Is that... good?"

"It means she noticed you enough to deliberately not look. That's a start."

***

Chapter 23: Alive

Summer

I'm at the kitchen table in pajamas and a hoodie that used to be Colt's. I'm three coffees in and a blank Book Five document that the words haven't been finding lately. I tell myself the well is refilling.

My phone rings and says PATRICIA. I pick up.

"It's done. I sent the final pass last night."

I open the email. SR_MS_FinalPass.docx. Four months. Two hundred and ninety-six pages. The book I wrote on the floor of this apartment with rage and grief and a cursor that wouldn't stop blinking.

Done.

"Summer." Her voice changes. "This book is going to hit the list. Not the extended list. The list. I have been in publishing thirty-two years and I know what a breakout feels like."

"Marketing will be calling you this week. I want you in New York the week before launch for press. ARCs go to my top reviewers Monday. I'll be in touch with the details."

"Summer. I'm proud of you."

I close my laptop.

***

The milestone show is one week away. I've been rehearsing after hours. Bex's choreography. Three minutes. One song. A slow build from stillness to power. No striptease. No reveal. Movement. Pure, controlled, devastating, and powerful.

Sam finds me in the studio. I'm sweaty and frustrated. The transition from second movement to third keeps falling apart.

"You're overthinking it." From the doorway.

"I'm thinking exactly the right amount."

"You're counting beats. Your body knows this. Let your brain shut up."