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She waits silently, giving me time, but I can feel her eyes on me. I came here to hide, so her interest should scare me. But it doesn’t. Actually, she’s making me feel like maybe what I really want is to be seen. Seen for who I am outside of the spotlight.

After taking a gulp of my drink for courage, I look up to face her. Then I do my best to sum up my career and explain how I wound up in my current situation. I stumble over my words a little when I tell her the part about getting photographed kissing a random woman. But if this revelation shocks her, she doesn’t show it.

Her eyes are nothing but kind as she listens, her unpleasantness toward me when I first showed up having morphed entirely into something else. Something that feels patient, gentle, and understanding.

When I tell her how my fans are now questioning not only my sexuality, but my music, feeling like I’ve been lying to them the entire time, I expect her to ask if I have been.

Instead, she frowns deeply and says, “People aren’t entitled to knowyour personal life just because they like your music. And if they need art to fit into some neat little box that makes them comfortable, and have it spoon-fed to them in order to understand it, then maybe they’re not the ones who are meant to appreciate it.”

For a few moments, I stare at her, my lips parted but no words coming out. Because she admitted to not listening to my music, and yet it sounds like she’s taking me more seriously as an artist than anyone has in a long time. And maybe it shouldn’t feel this good, because how would she know if she doesn’t listen? But again, she’s making me feel seen. Like she doesn’t need to hear the songs because she sees whoIam.

Not Riley Rowland, America’s Country Sweetheart.

Just Riley.

The girl who’s always had big feelings and big dreams, and who let one lead her to the other.

Or maybe I’m making up fantasies in my head here like I have a tendency to do. Maybe the combination of my near isolation, the alcohol, her chocolate brown eyes, and her exposed collarbone has made my mind all fuzzy.

Didn’t she say getting close to someone is a mistake she’ll never make again? I might be trying to figure some things out about myself, but that’s something I need to do on my own. This woman I met less than a week ago can’t help me.

I focus on the first thing she said, about my fans not being entitled to my personal life.

“The thing is,” I tell her, “for my whole career, I’ve been letting people into my personal life. I’ve taken my publicist’s advice, playing coy when I’m asked about my relationships in interviews. But I put everything out there in my songs. I give the little details that I know fans will pick up on. Like they know I was wearing that red dress with the gold earrings the night Jason Arnetto left me there alone at his film premiere afterparty.”

“Who?” Addison asks, her face screwing up in confusion. Apparently, she’s not too familiar with popular actors either.

“One of my exes. A real one, not PR,” I clarify. “He kind of sucked.”

But that song won a Grammy, so was the heartache worth it?

I wish I could say for sure.

I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. What I’m saying is, if I didn’t want everyone to know about my personal life, shouldn’t I have kept the details out of my songs?”

She shrugs. “I think good music is in the details. And maybe you kept those details in because you’re not only writing your songs for the masses. Aren’t you also writing them for yourself?”

She’s left me at a loss for words once more. When I started out writing songs, Iwaswriting them for myself. That was back when there was no one else listening, except occasionally my family. Once I became famous, though—once I knew millions of people were listening—did I let that change the way I approached my music?

I certainly let my manager shape my image. I hid some real relationships from the paparazzi, and I went along with PR relationships because I was promised it was the best way to keep people interested in me and sell my albums.

But I thought that’s simply how the entertainment industry works. I thought it was okay because my integrity was in my music. I believed that was where I was always being honest. Yet whenever my label asked me to write a catchy breakup song about a guy I was never really dating, I did it. I drew from real emotions, but I let the public believe the songs were about whoever and whatever they wanted them to be about.

If I was really writing for myself, would I have done that?

Fucking hell.All this self-reflection isn’t what I signed up for today. It’s probably time to get out of here.

Dodging her question that she probably didn’t intend to be as tricky as it was, I throw back the rest of my cider. Then I fake a smile and say, “I should get going so I don’t miss the shuttle back to the inn.

Truthfully, I was planning to call my brother and have him take meback, then maybe have dinner with him there. But it’s a good way out of this conversation. Because yes, I liked feeling seen at first, but I wanted her to see me as cool. Not see me spiraling.

“I can give you a ride,” she offers, taking the last sip of her drink before standing up.

“Oh, no, it’s okay.” I stand too, ready to bolt out of here.

“You shouldn’t have to wait for the shuttle,” she presses, her hand finding my lower back as we turn toward the exit. “I live that direction anyway.”

Now it feels like it would be rude not to accept, so I thank her and follow her outside. I let her stay half a step ahead of me as we walk to her car, and my eyes keep drifting between the knife and flowers tattoo on her calf and the black bra strap she’s showing off with her off-the-shoulder shirt.