Chapter Four“Wow. You really are in trouble, huh?” We’re sitting on the floor in the living room of the farmhouse, our backs against the sofa, making paper airplanes out of staff paper. We have a lazy competition going on to see who can land one into the giant claw-foot tub that sits in the middle of the kitchen.
“Yep. That album was due, oh—” I look down at my bare wrist where I would’ve worn a watch. “—fifteen months ago, give or take.”
“And you don’t have a single song written?” Mallory is sitting cross-legged beside me, studiously using the edge of the coffee table to make the creases in her airplane sharp. One long hank of her hair has snaked into her cleavage, and mentally following that lucky spiral of hair has been the reason every single one of my airplanes has sucked.
“I have
