POV: Nova
Six weeks after declining Atlantic Records, I stood backstage at the Bluebird Cafe—the same tiny venue where I'd sung five years ago, before Darren, before fame, before everything fell apart.
My hands shook as I tuned my guitar. The old one from my teenage years, not the expensive custom instruments Darren had bought me. This one had scratches and worn frets and sounded like home.
"You don't have to do this," Kai said for the tenth time. He stood beside me, still favoring his left side where the scar pulled tight, his hand protective on my lower back.
"I know. But I want to." I touched my stomach, where a small curve was finally starting to show. Thirteen weeks. Second trimester. The morning sickness had eased, replaced by a constant awareness of the life growing inside me.
