“See what I did there?”

“Yes, I’m very proud that you ate all your food.”

“It’s not that I never eat when I’m out. Just . . . I don’t usually want to.”

“’Well, now you do. You were saying?”

“Well, Bris resented me. Felt like my parents poured everything into me, which they did as soon as they realized how well I could play. Everything revolved around me. Around piano, and lessons, and then tours and concerts and promotions and recordings and television appearances.”

It sounds glamorous, but he was so young. Seeing Rhyson that day in the dune buggy, laughing and free, I bet at ten years old, on some level, he would have preferred that.

“Then when I emancipated, she called me ungrateful.” Rhyson shakes his head, a wry tilt to his mouth. “I wouldn’t trade my gift for anything, but I never asked for that life. She couldn’t understand how much it suffocated me.”

“What pushed you to emancipate?”

We’ve never really talked about this, and I’m not sure why in the middle of a birthday party in a bowling alley, I choose now, but I won’t let this window close before getting a look inside.

“Like, after all those years, what was the straw that kind of broke the camel’s back, Rhys?”

A frown darkens his face. He won’t look at me.

“Rhyson?”

“I heard you. Yeah.” He keeps his eyes on the long, sensitive fingers in his lap. “Um, it was actually Grady.”

“What’d Grady do?”

“He found out I was addicted to Xanax, and that I’d been on it since I was eleven.” Rhyson lifts his long eyelashes, and his eyes probe mine. Searching for—I don’t know—judgment?

“How . . . what? How is that even possible?”

Rhyson chuckles, a raspy, scornful sound.

“My mother gave me hers to help with anxiety before performances until later on when I got older and got my own prescription. I got hooked early and was pretty messed up by the time I was sixteen. Grady saw me at Christmas and confronted my parents about it.” He looks at me, eyes crystalline with emotion. “They wanted to hold off on rehab until after my European tour.”

Rhyson relaxes his face so deliberately I know he’s hiding the hurt.

“And that was the beginning of the end for me and my parents. I told Grady I wanted out, and he helped me emancipate. When things got really nasty during the hearings, he threatened to expose what my mother had done so they would stop fighting it. I haven’t seen them outside of a courtroom in years.”

“And Bristol stayed with your parents in New York, obviously.”

“Yeah, I moved here and started at the School for the Arts. She stayed back East. We had very little communication from the time I was sixteen until she left home and went to Columbia.”

“Who reached out first?”

“She did actually.” Rhyson gives a quick shake of his head and a half smile. “Told me she was getting her entertainment business degree so she could manage me.”

“But weren’t you teaching vocal lessons for Grady then? You weren’t even performing, were you?”

“Right. I was writing and producing for other artists by then, but she assured me that I’d be back.” Rhyson watches his sister dance with Grip. Affection softens his face, I assume for them both. “She was right, and when I told her a few years ago I wanted back in the business as an artist, she was ready.”

A frown darkens Rhyson’s face and he shifts in his seat.

“My parents weren’t too happy about it, but Bristol’s got too much backbone to care much what they think. We’ve been rebuilding our relationship ever since. She’s started rebuilding with Grady too, something my parents still won’t do. They won’t forgive him for helping me leave.”

“Why didn’t he just become your guardian? Why emancipate?”

Rhyson chews on a straw, eyes narrowed with fierce determination.

“I didn’t want anyone to have control over me ever again. Not even Grady.”

“I’m surprised you signed your record deal.”

He wears a crooked grin on his handsome face.

“So true. I signed a deal for just two albums because I knew music, but the business I was clueless about. I had a lot to learn.”

“Wow, really?” I fold my knee up and prop my heel on the seat. “I’m surprised they went for just the two.”

“They wanted me enough to loosen the rules a little.” Rhyson shrugs. “They still allowed me a lot of control given my experience and history.”

“You mean as a genius?” I tease him with a wide smile.

“Yeah, whatever.” He matches my smile and adds a wink that makes my pulse pound. “Can you keep a secret?”

“To the grave.”

“My next album?” He lifts both brows, making sure I’m tracking with him. “It’s not with the record company.”

“What . . . then who . . . ?”

The smug, eager look on his face clicks things into place for me. Rhyson wants to control everything around him.

“You’re starting your own label, aren’t you?”

He touches the straw to the top of my head like he’s knighting me.

“Ding! Ding! Ding!”

“Rhys, that’s awesome.”

So many questions flood my mind, but I’m not sure what to ask. I want him to trust me with whatever he wants me to know.

“It’s called Prodigy, the label, I mean.” Rhyson, so often impassive and guarded, looks almost animated. “Grip’s my first artist.”

My eyes find Grip and Bristol out on the dance floor.

“He’s so popular right now, hard to believe he doesn’t have an album yet,” I say.

“I know. All collabs and features. That was our strategy. To build his fan base and create so much buzz before he even has his solo project. Kind of how Drake did.”

Rhyson takes a swig of his water and reaches for an onion ring from Bristol’s abandoned plate. So we’re passed the eating in public thing.

“We’ll drop his album first and then my next album after my tour.”

I haven’t heard a lot of Grip, just on other artists’ albums like Rhyson said, but I know he isn’t the typical rapper.

“He has kind of his own flow, doesn’t he?”

Rhyson reaches across the table to grab a wing from the large tray in the center, dipping it into blue cheese before taking a bite.

“Yeah, probably the closest I’d say to his sound is Childish Bambino.” He shoots me a quick grin. “When I first met him, his raps were basically a notebook as thick as my arm filled with poems he had written. He’s the one who convinced me to start experimenting with my sound. Figure out how my classical training would translate to a more modern, mainstream sound.”

We chat for a few more minutes before everyone drifts back to the table. I love seeing Rhyson with his friends. After hearing about his awful parents, it’s great to see that he is genuinely loved by someone. And after hearing more of his story, I want to kiss Grady’s feet for being the adult who cared more about him than the bottom line.

It’s been a long few days of double shifts for double pay, and my body tells on me with a wide-mouthed yawn.

“You’re exhausted.” Rhyson stands and pulls me to my feet before looking around at everyone else. “We’re gonna bounce.”

Jimmi stands and walks over to Rhyson, looping her arms around his neck and tipping her head back. She’s a tall girl. Not as tall as Rhyson, but in her stiletto boots, she’s almost eye level. I’ve always been small and lean. Dancing, cheering, and gymnastics always kept me that way, and I love my body. Even my butt, which is almost too big for my petite frame. The only thing I’d change is my small breasts. That producer wasn’t the first to suggest I enhance my bustline. Jimmi has full, gorgeous breasts and presses them into Rhyson’s chest. Is that what he likes? I cross my arms under my modest curves, my cup confidence plummeting.

“Thanks for coming.” Jimmi licks her lips and pushes her hand into his hair.

“Jimmi, if you’re in heat, I’m sure we can find some dog in here to help you out.” Bristol laughs from her seat, shoving at Grip’s face when he leans into her neck. “Grip, I said no.”