Page 57 of Giving Chase

The sun sets behind the Pacific, painting us both in shades of gold and shadow. Twenty years of history pulse in the space between us.

His hands don't shake when he reaches for mine.

Neither do mine when I let him.

The Past Five Years

The first year after I dropped Chase at rehab, I threw myself into work. Fourteen-hour days, back-to-back meetings, endless contract negotiations. When COVID hit, I was already operating at full throttle.

But this? This was where I excelled. While other labels floundered, I created virtual concert platforms, innovative streaming solutions, remote recording setups. Built a pandemicsurvival strategy that became industry standard. The board noticed.

The promotion to President came faster than anyone expected. November 2020, in the middle of another COVID surge. The PR photos show me in my signature look – platinum hair with purple ends, steel grey power suit that matched my eyes. The industry papers called it a "meteoric rise."

They didn't see me almost call Chase that night. Almost text:I did it. I finally did it.

I deleted his number instead. Again.

"You need to date," Michelle insisted, eighteen months into my self-imposed isolation. "I know this great guy?—"

"I'm fine."

But she persisted. So did Justin. So, I went on the dates. The investment banker who talked about his portfolio all through dinner. The producer who spent the whole night pitching his "innovative new sound" (it wasn't). The session musician who looked nothing like Chase but played bass, and that was enough to end that experiment.

"Mom." Justin sprawled across my office couch, fresh from his own band's rehearsal. "When's the last time you did something just for you?"

"I just signed three new artists."

"That's work."

"I bought new shoes."

"To wear to work."

I did know what he meant. But I also knew that I had everything I needed. Great friends. A talented son whose band was making waves in the indie scene (without any help from his mother, thank you very much). A career I'd built through talent and hard work. The respect of an entire industry.

So what if I still changed radio stations whenOff the Recordcame on? So what if I took the long way around the building to avoid the recording studio where...

I was fine.

Really.

"There's this guy in A&R," Michelle tried again in 2022. "Really nice. Totally your type."

"I don't have a type."

She gave me a look. "Tall. Musical. Green eyes?—"

"Meeting," I said, standing abruptly. "Very important meeting."

"It's seven PM."

"Did I mention it's important?"

I dated the A&R guy briefly. And a talent scout. And a music journalist who at least made me laugh. None of them lasted more than a few months. One took me to a restaurant where Incendiary Ink's first platinum record hung on the wall. I left before the appetizers.

"Maybe I'm just not built for relationships," I told Michelle over wine one night. "Maybe this is enough."

She didn't argue. Just topped off my glass and changed the subject to quarterly projections.