He’d always known he could in terms of his job. He’d managed to separate that from decisions in a relationship, or rather the separation had been done for him, insidiously, by the person who’d previously pretended to love him. He knew he was good at organization, discussion, bringing people together, making their art—music, a book, a collaboration—the best it could be. He steered those rapids with confidence. And he could figure out how to navigate the rest, with some help.
This life. His new career. The next manuscript to consider for that new book series about women in rock and roll. Consent in their bedroom—or their kitchen, he tacked on, after that morning. What he wanted. Mel said, in their sessions, that that was important. Kris said so too. He knew they were both right; he felt goo
