Элисон Скотч: The Song Remains the Same

Wes is going to sell the house—he made his decision earlier in the day, when we took a final walk down to the dock, past my father’s studio, which has sat vacant, a vessel, for years now. I’ll probably sell the apartment up in New York, too. Maybe call Tina Marquis and ask her to show me something totally unexpected, something that might resonate with the new me who is yet unwritten, the me without the heft of my birthright weighing me down. Or maybe I’ll leave New York entirely. Point myself in a direction where I can make music again, feel the notes inside of me, listen to how they can move me. I don’t know. This has to be what I can do for now. Embracing the change and the shades of color that it brings into my life.

“You sure you’re okay with driving back with me?” Anderson says. It’s dark now, and we’re both zipped into our jackets, the temperatures dropping with the last light of day. The fallen leaves smell of evergreen, the branches cackling, the few remaining birds and squirrels keeping us company with their busywork. He leans against the hood of the car. “Because look, I get it, I get that I screwed up—messed up everything by doing what I did with Rory.”

I wave my hands. “Don’t.”

“No, let me.” And because I’m living in the softer moments of who I wasn’t before, I do. Let him. “I promised to have your back, to do anything to thank you for saving me, and I lost track of that.”

“We all lose track of things sometimes,” I say, pressing back against the hood next to him.

He shakes his head. “It was more than that. I just…I just couldn’t step outside myself, even when I wanted to. I couldn’t stop myself from self-destruction, despite knowing better.”

I nod and rest my head against his shoulder because I know. Who hasn’t known better and who hasn’t crossed a threshold anyway? My father, sure. But my mom, sister, husband, and yes, me, too.

“I just want you to be able to rely on me. Always,” he says.

“I’m the girl who saved your life.” I smile.

“You are indeed. There’s no replacement for that.”

“I think you should do the Spielberg movie.” I right myself and look at him now.

“What? No, I told my agent to pass.”

“Call them back, convince them that you made a mistake.” I stare at him, the lanterns from the porch our only light, and honest to god, he looks like a movie star, like he never fell from the sky alongside me, like we never lost ourselves to everything along the way. Both before and after. I lost myself long before I lost myself to that crash. I lost myself at thirteen, and then again every year since when I refused to shovel through the muck, digest it, own it, and let it all go. But I can now, can shovel through that muck to hopefully tunnel through to the other side.

“I don’t know,” he hesitates. “There’s something nice about not, about staying here, parked in the backwoods of Virginia with the girl who saved my life.”

“But there has to be more,” I say. “I think it’s time to go out, live our lives, and try not to duck behind the shadows anymore. Your drinking, my hard lines. They’re crutches, you know?”

He bites the inside of his gum and assesses. “And then what?”

I laugh because I can barely remember the past, much less predict the future.

“And then, hell if I know. But I’m pretty sure that’s as good a start as we’re going to give ourselves.”

He wraps his arms around me, and I sink into the barrel of his chest. For tonight, I let my new self trust my instinct to lean in and let him hold me up. And then tomorrow? Well, there is music to be made tomorrow, and it is bright, beckoning, wide-open.

A writer is only as good as the people who hold her hand along the way, and I couldn’t be more grateful to the amazing team at Putnam for holding mine. I’m not sure that I have the right words to prop-erly express my admiration and gratitude for my editor, Marysue Rucci, so I’ll just say this: how fortunate I am to have found you, and how appreciative I am that you pushed me to be a better writer when I didn’t realize that I had it in me. Thank you, thank you. Ivan Held, Kate Stark, Lance Fitzgerald, Alexis Welby, Chris Nelson, Lydia Hirt, and Diana Lulek: my deepest and unending thanks as well.

Thank you to Elisabeth Weed, my Jerry Maguire: you had me at hello. (Because saying “you complete me” would be creepy, even if true.)

Thank you to Laura Dave: my critique partner and the other half of my brain. Also my dear friend who makes me laugh every single day.

Thank you to Jon Cassir, Jessica Jones, Crystal Patriarche, Lucinda Blumenfeld, and the team at Parents.com, all of whom have been such advocates and friends.

Thank you to my husband and children, who remain my biggest cheerleaders.

Finally, thanks to you guys, my readers. I am so, so grateful that I get to make up stories and that you all take the time to read them. You push me to keep going, to keep improving, and not a day goes by that I don’t realize that I’m the luckiest woman in the world because of all of you.

The Department of Lost & Found

Time of My Life

The One That I Want