  &quot;Table for Emily Carlton,&quot; I tell the woman at the front of the trendy restaurant in LA. I follow her back to a table tucked into the corner. &quot;You requested something with privacy. How&quot;s this?&quot; she asks. &quot;Perfect. Thank you.&quot; I sit facing the door and watch people drift in. The full weight of my attention is on this meeting. I don&quot;t even know this woman, but I want to like her&mdash;and I want her to like me. I smooth the skirt of my simple black dress and wonder if I should&quot;ve worn my hair up instead of down. The nerves didn&quot;t hit me when I confirmed the meeting time, not even on the charter flight with my dad, Timothy, and Shane earlier today. They&quot;re hitting me now. A waitress comes by and offers me the drink menu. &quot;Would you like something?&quot; &quot;Sure, I&quot;ll have a glass of pinot grigio.&quot; I recognize her the

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  <div id="quillEditor" class="episode-content ql-editor">The morning after the party, I wake up to the sound of my phone buzzing. I shift out of bed, taking a second to admire Emily next to me, her red hair splayed over the hotel pillow. Last night, we got back from the party late. I know it&quot;s been a lot for her meeting her birth mom and the pressure of finishing her show. I&quot;m so damned proud of her even as I admire her for doing what she needs to even when she&quot;s afraid. It&quot;s one more thing I love about her. I tug on boxer briefs and head out to the balcony to answer the call from my realtor. &quot;What&quot;s up?&quot; I say by way of an answer. &quot;That property you wanted is a go. You ready to make an offer? If you don&quot;t, it&quot;ll go on the market, and there&quot;s no way you&quot;ll get another shot at it.&q

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  <div id="quillEditor" class="episode-content ql-editor">There&quot;s nothing like the morning after a night that doesn&quot;t end. Last night I rewrote the final song for the musical completely while staring at the studio before falling asleep in my chaise lounge, my notebook on my lap. The fog I&quot;ve been wrestling with cleared and I accomplished what I&quot;ve been trying to for months. I was so sure of it, I took a screenshot and sent it off to Miranda Tamayo last night. When the sun comes up, a slice of vibrant orange on the horizon, the paper is on the patio next to my chair. My phone buzzes with a message from my writing partner. It&quot;s short and sweet. Miranda: That&quot;s it.   Satisfaction and pride settle in me as I shift out of the chair, rubbing a hand through my hair. The tile cool under my bare feet, I stretch my sore m

&quot;Table for Emily Carlton,&quot; I tell the woman at the front of the trendy restaurant in LA. I follow her back to a table tucked into the corner. &quot;You requested something with privacy. How&quot;s this?&quot; she asks. &quot;Perfect. Thank you.&quot; I sit facing the door and watch people drift in. The full weight of my attention is on this meeting. I don&quot;t even know this woman, but I want to like her&mdash;and I want her to like me. I smooth the skirt of my simple black dress and wonder if I should&quot;ve worn my hair up instead of down. The nerves didn&quot;t hit me when I confirmed the meeting time, not even on the charter flight with my dad, Timothy, and Shane earlier today. They&quot;re hitting me now. A waitress comes by and offers me the drink menu. &quot;Would you like something?&quot; &quot;Sure, I&quot;ll have a glass of pinot grigio.&quot; I recognize her the second she walks in. Her hair is red like mine, and her mouth pulls into a startled smile. "Emily. Oh

CHAPTER 57