♫ Not really sure how to feel about it
Something in the way you move
Makes me feel like I can't live without you ♪
(Rihanna ft. Mikky Ekko—Stay)
Happiness—such a broad term and defined in various ways for different people.
Coralie wasn't certain she'd ever experienced it. Her childhood wasn't miserable; living in London was a memory she always cherished. She missed those days, often thinking of them with a nostalgic smile.
But plowing through most of her twenties by partying, drinking herself into dizzy stupors, and wasting the other half of those years regretting all the drunken mistakes—those weren't pleasant memories. Those dwelled in her mind and weighed her down and made her wonder if she could be happy.
But in the weeks, then months, after her mishap with Ryan, she felt something akin to happiness. A slight weightlessness in her chest, a cautious spring to her step, an airy attitude she wasn't used to. She smiled more, laughed more, and her past didn't zoom in to haunt her as much.
Her Friday night gigs were taking off, and thanks to them, The Swirled Lady became a household name in downtown San Francisco. Roger had to hire two more bartenders, and started plans to expand into the vacant building next-door, hoping to build a bigger, better stage for Coralie's performances.
She drew in crowds from all over—like the hipsters who sipped on unpronounceable cocktails found on Pinterest. Or the elderly couples who bonded with her soulful voice. And the groups of girls who wanted to jam to her heart-break melodies and get intoxicated to her enraged rampages against exes.
Her newfound happiness came in the form of friendship, too. She and Delilah dedicated more time to one another, with more roommate events of drinking wine and watching shows and dishing out gossip on the new hires from the bar.
Delilah did eventually spit out the "I told you so" comment she'd promised not to, but by then it had no effect on Coralie; at least, not on the surface. And though Delilah was right, a buried part of Coralie didn't regret what she'd done. She didn't regret giving in to Ryan, exposing herself, laying her heart out for him to tear to shreds. It was thanks to those actions that she'd been able to open up to Michael.
Michael.
He was another piece of the puzzle she called happiness. He didn't sweep her off her feet like Ryan had, but he kept her grounded, which was better. He didn't cause butterflies to explode in her gut whenever they met up, but he sent tingles up her spine when they made out, made love, or spent the night sleeping in each other's arms. She loved that they were able to lounge next to each other without ripping their clothes off, that they watched the same shows, listened to the same music, and enjoyed experimenting with the same food.
He didn't make her dizzy and giddy, but he made her smile, and that was what mattered to her the most.
Without Ryan to cloud her vision, without his flawless face all over her newsfeed, without his rippling muscles or his bright white smirk, Coralie moved on, moved forward, and motivated herself to keep striving for happiness.
A new form of happiness emerged into her life two months after the gigs had started.
One late afternoon, as she prepared the bar for opening, a young man and woman wandered in, completely ignoring the CLOSED sign flashing above the entrance. They sported holed jeans and graphic t-shirts and oversized sunglasses; the stereotypical weekend clientele that Coralie couldn't stand.
"Ugh." She spotted them, getting ready to tell them to get out. "We're not open yet, so could you—"
"—are you Coralie Amber?" The woman removed her sunglasses, revealing her neon green eyeshadow and marblesque black eyes. "Coralie Amber Watson?"
Squinting, Coralie hesitated. "Who's asking?" She assumed them to be fans of the gig, or regular patrons who forgot or lost something the night before, while at the bar.
"Sorry." The guy mimicked his companion, pushing his glasses up into his carrot-colored hair. "We didn't recognize you off the stage and hiding behind the bar. But we really want to speak to you."
"We need to," insisted the lady, shrugging her fingers through her jet-black curls.
Coralie peered down at her usual work attire—her looser-fitting jeans, her low-cut shirt, her sneakers. Coralie Amber, the singer, wore high-waisted pants and glittery tops and platform heels—and looked nothing like Coralie Watson, the basic bartender.
"Well, this is me." As sweat gathered on her neck, she twirled her hair into a bun and set her fists to her hips. "What can I do for you?"
They appeared younger than her, no more than twenty-five; trendy and confident and unwilling to follow simple signs that prohibited entry. Were they fans? Or had they shown up to prank her, or to harm her? Or did they not realize the bar was closed?
Her paranoia became intoxicating as she watched the woman settle on the only barstool not flipped over the counter, installing herself there as if about to order a drink.
Coralie frowned. "Um, like I said—"
"—we have a proposition for you," cut in the lady, depositing her glasses onto the recently cleaned surface. "This is a bit informal, so forgive us. We're members of an up-and-coming indie record label, and after seeing you perform last night... we decided we really like you."
To keep her trembling hands busy, Coralie stuffed a cloth into a beer glass to wipe it down, and snorted. "Uh, okay... you like me? What does that mean?"
A light flickered on in her brain.
Oh, no... they don't mean physically, right?
She almost spat out how she wasn't interested in threesomes—not after the botched, intoxicated one she'd attempted when she was twenty-two—and if they were trying to be funny, they should get the fuck out of her place of work.
"It means," carrot-top pulled out a card from his pocket and waved it at her, "we like you. As in, we'd like you to join our company, to sign on as a singer we could represent."
As her arms shook harder, Coralie put down the cup and took the card, glaring at it.
"If this is a joke—" she hiccupped, witnessing the very real business and contact number and email address.
Logan Lorne—Poisoned Paradise Records.
She'd heard the guy's name before, and the label rang a bell. Roger might have mentioned him the week prior; something about a scout sneaking in to watch her gig and possibly taking an interest in her.
"You..." she gulped, placing the card next to the beer glass, "want me?"
The woman, batting her heavily coated lashes, grinned. "Come in for a formal interview. We're still reviewing all your YouTube material, but we'd love to read any of the other songs you've written. Your voice—" she stuck her thumb up and her grin widened, "—is, and excuse my language, fucking awesome."
"It's dope." Logan patted the lady's back, prompting her to stand up. "And the executives—myself and a few other dudes—are intrigued. When are you free?"
Wait... what?
***
When patrons poured in an hour later, Coralie was in a daze. She mind-numbingly served beverages and ignored the usual advances from college boys and dragged herself back and forth behind the bar like a zombie.
A record label wants me?
Lost in her thoughts, she traveled home at the conclusion of her shift, having trouble understanding what had happened. She'd consented to a meeting on Monday with Poisoned Paradise Records.
Holding the card Logan had given her, she couldn't decide between a grimace of anticipation, or an enormous smile of delight.
The two representatives were so young, yet so eloquent in how they drew her attention, in how they praised her. Was it possible that she'd fascinated them as they'd claimed? Had she wowed them with her lyrics, enticed them with her voice?
Replaying their brief encounter in her mind, she wouldn't allow herself to get excited.
"Nah." She shook her head as she entered the empty apartment and discarded her shoes. "It's not for real. They're hacks, or they'll change their mind once they read my shit. No way."
***
Or... yes way?
Coralie sat in an office loaded with plants. Mini-trees and cacti and voluminous, vibrant flowers she'd never seen in her life surrounded her, along with a strong coffee and cotton candy scent.
Carrot-top—ahem, Logan—perched across from her, with a proper dress shirt and a pair of form-fitting slacks, and a smirk so huge it unnerved her.
"New York?" she repeated, her tongue tying in her mouth. "You want me to... go to New York? And w-write for you? Sing for you?"
Logan joined his hands on the desk resting between them. He narrowed his sparkling green eyes on her, studying her as her face drained of color and her shoulders pushed back and her knees fell inward.
She'd chosen to wear a dress and uncomfortable but flattering heels, unsure what she was getting herself into.
To her surprise, the record label's headquarters were in a reputable building a few blocks down from the bar.
"There have been amazing reviews about you in local newspapers, in indie art magazines. You've given the Swirled Lady a serious reputation, and people are raving about you online." He pushed a paper towards her—the one he'd asked her to read while he went over the notebooks of songs she'd brought with her. The contract. "We adore your YouTube videos, and from what I've seen here," he motioned at the notebooks, "you've got a real knack for digging out raw emotions and speaking your heart while making it rhyme. So yes, New York."
Coralie couldn't move.
New fucking York?
She nibbled on her lower lip and gaped at the paperwork once more.
"Office on the east coast..."
"Searching for new talent..."
"You have the style we're looking for..."
"M-me?" She couldn't gaze at him, afraid she'd burst into tears. This was what she'd dreamed of, sought after most of her adult life. But she'd been so busy trying to scrape money together to survive that she'd forgotten becoming a singer was her primary goal.
"You. One hundred percent you, Coralie." Logan leaned back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. "We'd assist with relocation expenses, and with apartment searching, but I would recommend you find a second job. Until your creations and your name take off, we won't be able to pay much, due to our new status and our small staff. But we also want you to write for some of our veteran musicians moving to New York to set up the label. We're not major yet, but we're getting there." He tipped over the desk, one palm clapping onto the typed-up agreement. "We will get there, with your help."
"So..." she tucked her hair behind her ears and swallowed hard and finally peeked at him. "You want me to move?" Her toes curled in her shoes and she flinched. "All the way over there?"
"Is that a problem?" Logan cocked his head, a sympathetic smile slipping over his thin lips. Coralie couldn't stop staring at his bright orange hair, but it hurt her eyes; more so when he spotted her and brushed his hands over the curls to shove them back. "If this isn't something you're interested in, we won't force you, of course. We'd understand if you wanted to decline. Not everyone is ready for such drastic changes."
Tugging the contract closer to her, and again reviewing the terms—write for us, submit your videos to us so we can approve them, play at bars that we ask you to—she sucked in a deep breath.
"I can keep posting to YouTube? And writing whatever I want?"
"Absolutely. We'll boost your views," he said, taking a sip of java from his oversized Star Wars mug. "But run things by us first, so we can check that it fits the style we want you to represent."
She should have asked for a few days to mull it over; should have sat on the idea and done her research and made them wait.
But her nerves propelled her into saying yes. At the end of the meeting, she signed the contract, stuffed her copy into her purse, and shook Logan's hand.
She was going to be a real, paid singer.
***
Delilah, who majored in law and worked for her father's firm—when not hungover or in a bad mood—reviewed the contract. There were a few details she didn't like, but she approved the overall nature of it and praised Coralie for signing.
"Shit, so you're leaving me?" She pouted, wrapped her arms around Coralie, then pulled away, a glow of mischief in her dark eyes. "Wait—fuck. No... no, I'll leave with you."
"What?" Coralie's eyebrows lurched upwards, and she almost stumbled into the coffee table.
Delilah shrugged and tossed her curls as she meandered over to her bedroom. "Our lease is up next month, and Dad keeps talking about opening an office on the east coast. I'm sure if I push for NYC, he'll agree, and maybe let me work there?" She'd only recently started working for him, and he didn't approve of her partying and dubious lifestyle. But Coralie had no doubt Delilah had her ways of persuading him. "I'm not letting you live in New York without me."
Though pleased that she'd have one familiar face with her through this new experience, Coralie feared she'd be losing another. Because breaking the news to Michael was a different story.
They met up at their favorite twenty-four-hour diner, sharing French fries and milkshakes after Coralie's Tuesday night shift. He never minded coming out to see her in the middle of the night—if anything, those were his most treasured moments, he'd once said.
"You're so raw and honest and beautiful when you're getting off work. Tired and vulnerable and cute."
But on this night, his shoulders sagged, and there was nothing treasured in his expression.
"New York?" He pinched his lips and settled against the booth cushions.
Cringing, she toyed with her straw. "Yeah... it's a long shot, but it's the opportunity of a lifetime, you know?"
"It is, but... that means you're moving, and I... I can't. San Fran is my home." He gawked into his vanilla shake as if it would answer him, as if it knew what to do.
Coralie had known he wouldn't be able to follow her. She'd weighed the pros and cons, she'd thought long and hard about it... but music was her passion, her career. And as much as she cared about Michael... she cared about her songs more. He'd always understood that, always gave her the space she needed; but tonight, she wasn't confident he'd be so cool about it.
"You have to pursue your dream, duh," he said with a deflated, defeated sigh. "It's just... not fair." Finally his hazel eyes found hers, and the dread and despair in them was like a dagger plunging into her gut. "I was starting to fall in love with you."
The corners of her lips sank. There was that word—love. She hadn't bothered to think of it since that one guy who'd broken her heart in Paris. The one who'd left her a half-assed note and luxury macarons and doomed her to a silent car-ride to the airport.
No... don't love me, please.
With all her current excitement, she hadn't thought about Ryan—not like that—in weeks, because she never wanted to again. She didn't want to stir the pot, regurgitate the past, recall the way he'd made her feel. Because no matter how much it hurt... she was still in love with him, and probably always would be. She hadn't envisioned ever experiencing such passionate love for anyone else; not even towards the benevolent, adorable Michael.
Sure, she had feelings for him—but love?
"I..." she wetted her lips and reached over to take Michael's hands in hers.
What could she say? What could she offer him instead of love? Would he crumble if she told him she wasn't in as deep as he was? She didn't want to lose him, or the emotions he brought her whenever he was near, whenever he touched her, held her.
I have to leave. Would he accept long-distance?
She'd tried long-distance before, with Benjamin, and it had failed. He'd been a royal asshole and never communicated with her and left her to presume they were broken up months before they officially ended things.
But she and Michael were adults—Michael was seven years older than her—and if they cared about each other, they wouldn't lose contact, right? They'd fight to make their relationship work.
"We... can we... not break-up?" She squeezed his hands. "Can we keep seeing each other... at a distance? I... I'm not convinced I can ever fall in love again, but I do care about you, Michael. A lot. And I don't want to choose between you and my dreams. I want you in my dreams."
It was a cheesier speech than she'd anticipated, but when Michael's features illuminated and he squeezed her hands back, she realized she'd succeeded.
♥♥♥