A Love Song for Dreamers (Rivals Book 3)

by Piper Lawson

  Today’s our last day together, and it just got shorter.

  “Tell me what you want,” she murmurs. “We can stay in bed all day. I’ll call the front desk and book the room for another night if we have to. Or we could go to the beach. We could shoot pool. I don’t care as long as I’m with you.”

  I can’t breathe because this feels so right, spending the day with her without an agenda.

  But it also feels wrong as hell to know it’s the last time we’ll do it this summer.

  “I want to show you something,” I tell her.

  I drive her to the house in Santa Monica and park outside.

  “This is it?” she whispers.

  “Yeah. Did you want to go inside? I can call the realtor. Have him meet us here.”

  Her eyes fill with tears.

  “Shit,” I mutter, shifting across the console to wrap an arm around her. “This is not what I was going for.”

  “It’s not that. Last night, I wanted… I dream of you too, Tyler.” she swallows. “This show in New York, it’s not only my dream. It’s other people’s. I need to see it through—not because I want to prove I can, but for them.”

  I heave out a breath. I’ve never been willing to have people rely on me like that, but I love her for it.

  “I hate this,” I confess. “Not this time with you. I hate that I can be a part-time brother or friend or son. I can move in and out of Jax’s life or Sophie’s or Beck’s or even Shay’s. I can stop by for a weekend or a vacation, and we can catch up, and it’s like old times. And thanks to you, I want to. I know what it’s like to have people in my life I care about and who care about me.

  “But I can’t be with you part-time. You need someone with you always. Someone who’s all in. Someone to wake up with, to laugh with. Someone to hold you when you’re freaking out.”

  Her soft face, full of love and sadness and hope, has my chest caving in. “Maybe not. I could be in New York, and we could go back and forth.”

  “You deserve that, Annie. I couldn’t live with the thought of you having less than you deserve.” She’s too bright, too creative, too connected. “And this sounds selfish as fuck, but letting you in… it’s hard for me. To do that, I need you with me. To see your face, to hold you, to know everything’s going to be okay.”

  “I keep feeling,” she starts, swiping at her face, “like it’s not our time. Like I’ve been waiting for years and I only get glimpses of it, and we have to fight for every single moment. I just want it to be our time, Tyler. Just once, I want today to be our day.”

  I tug her against me, dropping my lips to her forehead. “Then let’s make today our day.”

  So, we do.

  We stroll LA like tourists.

  We laugh and dance and make out like we’re in high school.

  I have my best friend, the woman who makes me feel more alive than I’ve ever felt.

  I hate letting go of her hand when I drive her to the airport.

  Watching her walk away is a million times harder.

  I stay at LAX, staring at the departures level until someone honks loudly from behind and I eventually pull out.

  On the way back to my place, I roll down the windows.

  When I thought of being in LA, staring at the ocean, I dreamed of freedom, but now the air feels colder, and I’m left thinking freedom never felt so lonely before.

  19

  There’s nothing like having professionals read—and sing—your script, especially if it’s the first time you’ve heard it out loud.

  The SoHo loft is chic and spacious by New York standards. It’s still cozy with eight of us sitting in a circle, chairs from the table and stools from the bar pulled around so we’re all facing each other.

  I’ve always loved the tradition of a reading. It’s like being on stage, nerve-wracking and thrilling at once. It’s not unlike reading my poem in front of Carly, though the stakes are much higher. It’s personal because my work is personal.

  I sit back, pull the pencil from behind my ear, and tap it lightly against my leg as the actors sight-read a song.

  The dark-haired woman singing the lead stumbles over a part of the chorus—partly because it’s tricky and partly because everyone’s flagging a bit after three hours of working on this show.

  I hold up a hand. “Let me fix that. Ten-minute break?”

  Everyone nods, and I scribble the change I want on her version on the book. If it works, I’ll put it into my version, the master.

  When I finish, I check my phone. Sure enough, there’s a message from my writing partner.

  Miranda: How’s the reading going?

  Annie: A few rough spots. I’ll keep you posted. How are you feeling?

  Miranda: My body’s rebelling. Have a drink for me.

  My throat closes up. Her chemo started this week, and she wanted to come today, but I told her to take care of herself.

  It’s another reminder of how much is riding on this.

  A drink appears at my shoulder, and I look up.

  “You need a break too,” comes a kind, masculine voice.

  Jeffrey is tall and pushing sixty-five, with a receding hairline and sharp blue eyes. After reviewing the information on the funders, I knew he was my best chance. The man has three granddaughters and a history of seeing potential in unusual projects.

  “This is amazing,” I tell him. “Thank you for being so receptive when I asked if we could move the reading to your place. I know Ian usually hosts.”

  “My pleasure. Can’t let him have all the fun. Besides, your pitch was persuasive.”

  “That’s a kind way of saying I showed up at your office unannounced and sang you one of the songs.”

  His smile is gentle, but his eyes sparkle as he nods toward the balcony. “Let’s step outside. It’s a nice night.”

  I follow him out, and he pulls the door shut after us.

  “My first musical, we were workshopping it for months,” he says under his breath. “Ran three years off-Broadway and—”

  “Ten years on it,” I finish.

  A Broadway show costs millions to stage, and most don’t make that back. Then there are the unicorns, the ones that resonate—Phantom of the Opera, Rent, Hamilton. They cover all manner of things, but they stay with us.

  “They’re not all like that,” he goes on at my expression. “A production has to capture people in the right way, at the right time. Most never do that.”

  “That’s why we try. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s hard.” I lean over the railing, staring out at the bright lights of the city as I continue.

  “I used to think being in the spotlight was about talent or worthiness or luck. But it’s more than that. It’s a thousand choices to try something when you’re afraid, to say yes when it’s easier to say no, to believe in what you’re doing on those days you don’t believe in yourself.

  “Do you believe in this enough to fund this?” I blurt, turning toward him.

  His face goes blank, but I’m not here for validation. There’s something more I need from him.

  “I’m sure people ask you for money every day,” I say. “But I’m not asking you to invest in me. I’m asking you to invest in this.” I gesture behind me. “This idea, this story, this possibility. If you honestly believe it will move people—that’s what we’re all trying to do. I know I’m enthusiastic. But don’t mistake it for naïve. I’ve seen a lot of this industry. I understand you need to make a profit. But I also know you wouldn’t be in it if there was anything else that would satisfy you.”

  I take in his impassive face, my hands fisting at my sides as my heart falls into my stomach.

  But after a moment, Jeffrey laughs softly. “You must have been influenced by your father.”

  Once the question, the deflection, would’ve made me angry. It doesn’t anymore. “We’re always influenced by the people in our lives.”

  “Would he be attaching himself to this?”

  I shake my head. “I w
on’t ask him, and neither will you. It’s not his story.”

  He turns that over as I stare out over the street, the people laughing and the cabs passing below.

  “Well,” he says at last, “we’ll reserve him tickets.”

  My glass slips, and I fumble to grab it before it hits the patio. “You mean you’ll fund it?” When I look up, he’s smiling.

  “It’s a fabulous story, and I have a couple of directors in mind. But I won’t pretend some of the appeal isn’t standing right in front of me. Your talent, energy, charm… You’ll make a stellar lead.”

  My heart kicks as I drop into one of the chairs on the balcony.

  “Something wrong?” he asks.

  “Just waiting for the blood flow to return to my head.”

  I want to tell Tyler. As the conversation inside drifts through the glass, I want to call him. It’s everything I wanted.

  But also, it’s not.

  It’s been a week since I came back to New York. Tyler’s back in LA now, finalizing the deal on his new house. We left things in a good place but agreed it was best to keep some space between us for a while, which is why I haven’t reached out to him and he hasn’t reached out to me.

  I’m still reliving our time together this summer, the days and nights in Dallas and LA. I decided to write them out like a diary, to preserve them like the perfect memories they are, but every time I start, it’s too fresh and it hurts too much, so I close the book.

  “Are you all right?”

  I blink to see Jeffrey, his glass raised.

  “I’m great.” I rush to clink my glass to his.

  Sadness makes this moment bittersweet. I try to focus on the good, but my heart’s still heavy.

  “How’d it go?” Elle jumps on me when I enter our apartment. It’s two in the morning, and I’m ready to fall into bed, but I give her the news, and she shrieks, wrapping her arms around me. “Shit, A, you’re making a show!”

  “Apparently.” My grin stretches across my tired face.

  “So, you did it, and NT wasn’t even involved,” she muses. Before I can argue, she heads for the kitchen and pours shots of bourbon. “Cheers.”

  We toss them back, and the warmth burns down my throat.

  I think of Miranda’s reaction when I called her on the way home, how ecstatic she’d been despite the late hour. I debated whether to tell her tonight or tomorrow, but hearing her reaction, I was glad I didn’t wait.

  “You tell Tyler yet?” Elle’s gaze over the shot glass is full of meaning.

  I shake my head.

  “He deserves to know—it’s his story too,” Elle goes on.

  I pour us both another shot and pass her one. “I feel like I pulled it from the air.”

  We toast and toss this one back too.

  “Come on.” Elle sets her shot glass on the counter and leans a hip against it, her lips twisting. “A girl who thought her heart was stolen and that’s why she couldn’t feel goes on a journey with the help of a boy who shows her what it means to live and learns she had it all along.”

  I’m shaking my head before she finishes. “The female lead is nothing like me. She doesn’t have a heart. She doesn’t think she’s missing anything until someone points that out. I’ve never had that problem. I feel way too much.”

  “Obviously. But you’re not her. Tyler is.”

  I wash the shot glasses and cast a look over my shoulder. She tips her chin down, staring at me as if I’m being deliberately slow.

  My hands still in the sink, bubbles filling the basin.

  “You’re the other lead,” she goes on. “The boy who shows her what it means to live, and love, and take chances.”

  I turn off the faucet and watch the water drain out. The shiny dish soap glints on the surface as the bubbles spiral around and around, finally slipping down the drain.

  I set the glasses on the drying rack. When I face my roommate, I brace a still-wet hand on the counter. “That’s not true.”

  But my chest squeezes. The next breath is harder than the last.

  It’s our story. Mine and Tyler’s. Not all of it of course, but the core.

  I cross to the couch and perch on the arm. Elle’s face fills with empathy as she follows. “He’d be proud. You should send it to him.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “Since you started telling me about it a year ago. Does he know you love him?”

  I shove off the couch and pace the width of our apartment. “Yes.” I pause by the window. “But Tyler has always chosen freedom, to do his own thing and rely on himself. New York isn’t what he wants. And I want this show, Elle. Not only for me, but also for everyone involved. For everyone who’ll get to see it if we keep going.”

  “You want it enough to let Tyler go? Not that I want to lose you and Beck to LA”—her lips curve in a sad smile—“but you could write.”

  I return to the counter for the shot glasses and pour half a glass more for each of us.

  “We always stayed true to our dreams, for better or worse, and I love that about us. But a career isn’t made or broken in one perfect moment. It’s hundreds of choices over thousands of days. What if love is the same, Elle?” I think of the ups and downs with my family, my dad. “Maybe we were meant to be apart for a couple of years, and that decision wasn’t wrong, it was just one more choice that helped us grow and learn and become more of who were supposed to be. Maybe we have more choices ahead of us, starting right now, and nothing in the world can keep us apart if I find ways to choose him.”

  The ideas start coming in a rush, all at once. “If I can find the right person to play the female lead, I can finish the show without having to be in it.”

  Her eyes widen. “You’d give up playing the lead for Tyler.”

  A surge of energy takes me over, and I know in an instant what I’m thinking is right.

  “I wouldn’t be giving up something I want. I’d be choosing something I don’t want to live without.”

  He’s my best friend, the only man I’ve ever loved.

  The only man I will love.

  Taking up a Broadway stage might have been my dream, but I have another dream that matters every bit as much.

  Us.

  20

  I get my bike out to ride to Santa Monica, navigating the ever-present traffic on the way to the address I know by heart.

  The property’s a house with ocean views—three bedrooms, white stucco, sunshine for days. When I get there, Beck’s leaning against his car.

  “Nice of ‘em to let you come see the place again,” my friend comments.

  I pass him to get to the door, punching in the code the realtor gave me. “For the price, they should.”

  I put an offer in last week before the house was scheduled to go on the market, but we built into the conditions that I get another look at it.

  He follows me inside.

  It’s beautiful, open concept with high ceilings. Too much white, but something tells me that’s by design.

  I never pictured myself living in something so stunning.

  I head through the living room to the patio on the other side, a pool and a deck with a glass wall around it.

  “How’s it look, pool boy?” Beck laughs.

  “It’s not bad,” I admit, leaning my elbows on the railing.

  He takes up a post next to me, sliding his aviator sunglasses off the top of his head and up his nose. “Why do you look so bummed? There are a dozen reasons to be satisfied this week.” He counts them on his fingers. “I have a ten-episode series coming to a streaming network near you. You got your dream house, and Annie got her show funded.”

  I jerk upright, whirling to face him so fast he jumps.

  “What did you say?”

  A guilty expression crosses my friend’s face. “You didn’t know.”

  My hearts aches. “No.”

  Because we decided not to talk for a while, I remind myself. It was mutual. So, why does it feel like shit?


  Since she left, I’ve been trying not to think about her, but I can’t help it. I’m going about my life, but I see her on street corners, I picture her smile at night, I hear her voice whispering in my ear.

  When I went on tour, I promised I wouldn’t look her up on social.

  I’ve stuck to that now, too.

  But I keep looking at the photo of us in that bar in Dallas.

  It’s not cheating to stare at the curves of her lips in that picture, to remember how it felt to have her next to me.

  I turn to head inside, Beck’s footsteps at my back as I wander through the kitchen. Even the microwave is a stainless steel thing of beauty.

  You could make some bitchin’ Rice Krispies squares.

  I pull on a drawer, then let it slide back in on its special hinges.

  Something occurs to me. “Just tell me that douche NT isn’t the one funding her show.”

  Beck laughs, but there’s a hint of sadness underneath as he tugs on the door of the fridge to inspect the inside, sliding the sunglasses down his nose to peer overtop. “You heard about Elle’s nickname.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Elle called him Not Tyler from the time they started dating because she knew anyone who wasn’t you wouldn’t measure up.”

  Forget shutting out the pain. It washes over me in a wave.

  I cross to the glass doors again, pressing my nose and forehead against the smooth surface as I shut my eyes. It’ll probably leave marks.

  I give zero fucks.

  “I wanted to be with her, Beck,” I bite out through my clenched jaw. “So fucking much.”

  He snorts. “The Tyler from Vanier wouldn’t have stood by and watched his girl walk away.”

  I fold my arms over my chest. “The Tyler from Vanier was volatile. All I could think about was getting out from under the weight of my dad, his resentment.”

  “But you’ve let it go. The past is the past. The things you were, the things you wanted… you don’t owe them anything. That includes this dream of hiding out here alone in the sunshine.”

  “It wasn’t about hiding out. I wanted to fix my hand, get another album done, and buy my security. It was about—”