Archive of Our Own

Daisy drives to the studio squinting into the setting sun. Her sunglasses pinch the bridge of her nose, and when she slides them down, she has one little indent on each side.

She’s booked for a late session to smooth out some kinks in her second album. She wrote the songs with the intention of working on them with Teddy, and it's taken longer than she thought to get it all done without him. Her producer is fine, competent, but she feels the absence of Teddy's genius shining through every time she replays a track and doesn't trust it. It's the least of the absences she feels without him, but it's there, pushing at the insecurity that lives inside her, pasted over with bravada and confidence. She reminds herself that she knows how she wants the tracks to sound, just can't seem to translate it from her head to the speakers. Most of them slightly off in a way she can't articulate.

"Hey," she says, waving to Barb at the reception desk, keyring clattering around her finger.

"Hi, Daisy!" Barb smiles, waving back.

Daisy doesn't break her stride as she walks by. "How've you been?"

"Good."

"Hope you're not in much longer."

"Closing at nine!" she calls.

Daisy wrinkles her nose so Barb knows she's sorry.

Pushing through the studio door, Daisy drops her head, tossing her keys into the disorganized mess of her bag and rummaging around for a stick of gum.

The smell comes to her first, faint and burned into her memory, a woodsy musk that shivers down her spine. She looks up, not expecting anything. It's not like Billy Dunne is the only person who has ever worn that cologne.

But he's there. Frozen. One hand on his hip, the other paused on the control panel.

Daisy's heart skips a beat before thudding painfully in her chest. "Hey."

"Hi." Billy clears his throat. "We're almost done. Sorry." He nods toward a keyboardist on the other side of the glass. "Fixing a chord progression."

"Okay, sorry, I can--" Daisy points behind her, thumbing toward the door.

Irritation pulses at her temples. She's thirty minutes late, the studio has been booked for weeks, and doesn't he have to get home to dinner with his wife or something? But Daisy's too stunned to let it show, insides twisting into knots, her reaction to him rattling against her bones like a caged animal. The impulse to put her finger in his face and let him know how badly he fucked her up wars against the desire to twist her fingers into his stupid shirt and pull him close.

Her therapist is going to have a field day.

"No, sorry." Billy stares at her, unreadable. "It's not--" He swallows, turning toward the studio musician. "You can go home, Rich," he says. "Thanks."

Daisy slides her purse off her shoulder, letting it slouch in the corner by the door.

"See you Friday," Rich says to BIlly. And then to Daisy: "Sorry again. Bye."

She nods, watching him leave, the door to the studio closing behind him.

"Daisy, I--" Billy starts.

"Don't." She doesn't know what he planned on saying, and the real problem is she doesn't know what she wants him to say. "I'm never out on time, either."

He presses his lips together, shaking his head once, twice. "Will you listen to this? Tell me what you think?"

Wiping her palms against the fabric of her jeans, Daisy agrees, sliding into the chair next to Billy. He's standing. He never sits while producing, as though there's too much energy in his body, as though he needs to be ready to run at any moment.

Daisy feels as though she's having an out-of-body experience. She tries not to breathe too deeply. Almost considers pinching herself awake from this dream-slash-nightmare.

Two months of rehab, three years of weekly therapy shifting into biweekly sessions whenever she's in LA, and it suddenly feels pointless. Daisy is remarkably close to throwing it all away just so she can smell Billy beneath a spritz of cologne, reach out and press the pads of her fingers against his forearm and dig her nails into his shoulders. Whether she wants to hurt him or not, she can't tell.

She's wanted to hurt him plenty of times, usually because he was being a dick. Because he was hurting her, too. But Daisy is supposed to be better now.

Maybe she isn't.

She stares at the soundboard as he plays the track. She doesn't recognize the singer, probably a debut artist. Billy's touch is all over the production, undeniably so, but it isn't his song. The lyrics don’t sound like the mediocre radio hit about fog from two years ago. That one had hurt, an ode to forgiveness, a song for his wife that classified Daisy as a passing mistake leading to clarity.

This is easier to swallow. And it's good.

"I like it," she says.

"But you don't love it."

She shrugs, toeing at the heel of her shoe as though she wants to push it off. "The song's fine, Billy. There's not much else you could've done unless you rewrote the verses so they don't sound like cliche drivel."

In her peripheral vision, his head drops, a smile pulling at his mouth. "I didn't write it, Daisy."

She makes eye contact. "I know."

Billy's eyes darken, and Daisy tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. "Are you waiting for someone?" he asks. Innocent enough that she almost can’t hear the tension inside him, the decision not yet made.

"No, I need to figure out what's wrong before I bring in someone to fix it. I've had everyone re-record their parts a couple of times, and Warren's the only one who doesn't complain about being dragged back here."

Billy’s hands flex by his sides, looking around the empty control room and into the empty studio in front of them. "Mind if I have a listen?"

Yes, she thinks. Billy doesn't get priority access to her most personal thoughts anymore. If he wants to know how she's doing, he can wait and pick up a record like everybody else.

Instead, she says, "Sure."

The song is about Howard, a restaurateur she dated for 8 months in '81. He always held the door open and pulled out her chair when they went out. He was a little pudgy, with a kind smile and large knuckles. Daisy liked the warm way he looked at her, like he couldn't believe he was lucky enough to be in her presence, like she was the sun he orbited.

Howard loved her more than she loved him.

Daisy knew that feeling too acutely to hold onto him in the hope that one day she'd suddenly see him in the same bright, white light. Knew the pain of it too deeply to believe he'd see her clearly enough to let her fall off the pedestal, allow her to float to the earth like a feather in a gentle wind.

He wasn't an angel, though. Ran into her on the strip two weeks later while she was with Kent and said some truly nasty shit to her, to him. That's the thing about pedestals, the fall is rarely ever soft.

She sets up what she has so Billy can play it back, getting up when her voice comes through and rooting around her bag for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Daisy watches Billy's toes tap to the beat and the curve of his spine as he leans over the soundboard, adjusting the mix without her permission. Rolling her eyes, she offers him a Parliament. He takes it, then the lighter. Their hands don't brush.

He listens to the song, cigarette burning between his fingers, and when it ends, he asks, "What's wrong with it?"

"It sounds wrong," Daisy says, annoyingly petulant even to her own ears. She takes a drag, turning her head to exhale away from him.

Billy laughs. "Who's your producer?"

"Waylan Chase."

He hums. "You don't like the guitar."

Daisy blinks and bites the inside of her cheek, considering. "I fucking hate the guitar. It sounds like it's chasing a hit from five years ago."

Billy takes one pull of the Parliament before stubbing it out in an ashtray. "Come on," he says, opening the door between the control room and the studio.

Following, she watches him pick up one of the guitars, pulling up a stool and slinging the strap around his shoulders. Daisy sits next to him. She rubs at her thigh and rolls her cigarette between her pointer and middle fingers, flicking some ash onto the carpet and grinding it into the floor with the toes of her Converse.

"Sing," he instructs.

Daisy flicks some ash in his direction this time, and he rolls his eyes. She sings; he plays. At first the notes are too long, too slow, and then the chord progression is too linear, and then he shows off, making it too complicated. "I want it to sound like gritted teeth," Daisy says, thinking about Howard’s smile turning dark and mean.

And Billy does it, translates the riff in her head into something everybody else can hear. It flits around her stomach and creeps into her smile as she leaves him in the studio, heading into the control room so they can record it. She watches him slide on the cans and play the new part, separated by glass. Billy looks down at the guitar the entire time, and Daisy does too, watches his fingers press into the strings, change chords, strum.

She clicks on the speaker when she's satisfied, and says, "We've got it."

Billy raises his eyebrows at her, cocky and assured, and Daisy tugs at the thin cotton of her T-shirt, a familiar feeling threading liquid heat through her body. She should find it more worrisome than she does, tucking the feeling and its consequences away for later.

Billy leans against the door between the studio and control room. "I have to get home. I'm late."

"Yeah, I-- of course. Thank you."

He rubs at the back of his neck. "Would you, uh, are there any other songs that Waylan can't wrap his mind around?"

"A few. The label booked the studio for the next two weeks."

Billy's Adam's apple bobs when he swallows, eyes darting around behind her head. "Need a second set of ears?"

No, she thinks. It's dangerous, and it's wrong, and she wants it too badly.

Drugs were never an excuse for Daisy. She never had a problem taking responsibility for herself, owning her mistakes, acknowledging her feelings as hers and not a byproduct of a pill or one too many shots. But suddenly sobriety seems like an excuse to say no, as though if she were high she'd say yes, and that would be okay somehow. Her fingers itch. Her mouth goes dry.

"Yeah," she says.

"All right." He shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and smiles at her. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Okay." Daisy swipes a finger along her eyebrow. And then: "How'd you know I wrote it on the piano?"

Billy pauses, hand on the doorknob. "The piano was the best part."

He exits, shutting the door so softly it doesn't even make a sound, and Daisy collapses into a chair. She rests her head in her hands and laughs, disbelieving.

It's really, really not funny.

Billy eyes the studio's payphone and considers calling home. He should let Camila know the session ran long and he's leaving now. He doesn't, fearing she'd hear the lie in his voice. Guilt and shame weave themselves around his heart, but they're no match for the jolt of adrenaline that ran through his veins when he saw Daisy standing in the dim studio light, peach mouth and pale skin, eyes bright and clear.

He goes out of his way to find a store open late near the hospital, grabbing a pack of Parliaments that he shoves into the glove box and a daffodil plant for Camila.

She's still awake when he walks in the front door a quarter until midnight. Billy drops his keys into the crystal bowl she set on the kitchen counter and hopes the clink clears his head.

"Hi," Camila says. She looks small curled against the side of the sofa, TV a quiet background murmur. "I thought you'd be home by nine."

"So did I." Billy sets the daffodils on the coffee table, leaning down to press a kiss against Camila's forehead. She smells clean, like soap and rosemary, and Billy lingers, inhaling. He used to depend on her to ground himself, and now he knows that's futile. He can't put that on her. He has to be steady on his own. "How was your night?"

"Good." She looks up, dark circles beneath her eyes, smile small but sincere. "Did you eat?"

"No."

"There's leftover locro in the fridge. I can warm it up for you?"

"That'd be great. Thanks, Cami." He holds out his hand. Her smile grows, reaching her eyes as she takes his palm and he hauls her up. "I'm gonna say goodnight to Jules. You tired?"

"Yeah," Camila says. "But I can stay up."

"You don't have to. I'm just going to eat and head to bed."

Her head tilts, and her eyes cloud with a question. Billy didn't touch Daisy, made sure of it, but he wonders, briefly, if Camila can sense her all over him, anyway. "I want to."

He wraps his fingers around her wrist, tugs her close and kisses her, soft and sweet. "Thank you," he whispers against her mouth.

"You're welcome," she presses back.

He really does love her.

He does.

He knows that his love for her has to be tended like a garden: holding her hand, taking a deep breath when she has a bad day, listening instead of arguing, buying her flowers and sitting at the kitchen table, looking through her prints together. He hopes it's enough, but Billy isn't sure it is. He never has been.

Billy's in the studio when Daisy arrives, one styrofoam cup of coffee and one with the chamomile tea Daisy only ever drank when she'd been awake for over 20 hours and keeping her eyes open took herculean effort.

"You're late," he says, glancing at the clock.

Daisy rolls her eyes. "Traffic."

"Liar." Billy smirks and holds out the tea.

"I don't like this stuff." Daisy grabs the cup. It's lukewarm. "And between us, you've always been the liar."

Billy's face falls, nostrils flaring as he exhales. He gulps down the remainder of his coffee, and Daisy's sure it's as cool as the tea she's holding.

"How's Camila?" she asks, wanting to believe it's a kind gesture, as though she's letting him know that she now understands his life; Billy loves Camila, and she means everything to him, and Daisy respects it.

His mouth thins. "She's fine."

Daisy bites the inside of her cheek. Well, then. "Julia must be pretty big now," she pivots.

Billy swivels in his chair to face her, shoulders easing. "She is. She's this tall." He brings his hand up in a rough estimate. "I swear she grows an inch every day."

"Yeah?" Daisy sets her tea back down. It's cheap stuff, and she brings her own packets now, adding lemon and honey to hot water when she forgets.

"She has a disposable camera that she loves. She takes one picture a day, but she goes around looking through the viewfinder all the time."

Daisy stretches her legs out in front of her. Her knees seem extra knobby, and she pulls at a loose string fraying at the end of her shorts. She looks at Billy, tilting her head, question genuine and genuinely transparent: "What else does she like?"

"Her favorite books are the Ramona ones. You know them?"

"I read one of them... Ramona and Beezus, I think?"

Billy smiles, happy and content, the remnants of tension clearing. "Yeah, they're pretty good. I read that one to her, and now she's reading them to me. You actually remind me of Ramona. We finished Ramona the Pest last month."

"Dick," Daisy snorts.

Billy laughs, a fondness in it that bubbles in Daisy’s chest. "Her favorite subject is lunch, but if that doesn't count, it's math."

"Just like her dad." Daisy's own fondness softens her smile, and she hopes it doesn’t shine in her eyes. "Hopefully the pythagorean theorem doesn't break her, too."

"No, she's way smarter than me."

"That's not hard."

Billy shakes his head, a small huff of a chuckle. When he looks at her again, his face is open and serious. "Teddy told me you went to rehab."

Daisy rubs her lips together, nodding. She doesn't know whether she should say something about Teddy or being sober, but there's no chill with the somber feeling. "Six years last October."

"That's great, Daisy. I'm really proud of you," Billy says.

"I'm proud of myself, too."

"Six years for me. Since October."

Daisy wants to reach across the space between them and grab his hand. She still feels as connected to him as she did during the 70s, and she knows he feels it too, eyes locked on hers, drinking her in like she's brand new. "I'm proud of you, too."

It hangs between them until Daisy can’t do anything but look at his mouth. Billy clears his throat, reaching up to rub at the nape of his neck. "So, what do you have today?"

She has a song about nobody but herself, about her fear of being unwanted and unloveable and throwing herself out there with so much force the inevitable rejection comes swiftly, about not allowing enough room for crushing hope to develop. It's vulnerable and desperate, and she knows the problem is the vocal. It's not raw or honest enough, because Waylan didn't push her, and she didn't push herself, either.

When she plays it for Billy, tears swim in his eyes. "Daisy, this is..."

"I need to re-record it," she says. "I was holding back."

"Are you sure?" There’s kindness in his inflection, and it annoys her.

"Of course I am."

She pushes out of her chair and marches into the studio. Rolling her neck and stretching, she pulls her arms above her head and feels like a boxer getting ready for round one.

Billy's voice crackles into the headphones: "Whenever you're ready."

She nods, and he starts the track. It'll need to be pulled back, stripped cleaner and more raggedy, but it'll have to follow her vocal. The production isn't Waylan's fault; he was making up for the emotion she left inside.

"Hey, Daisy," Billy says, stopping her halfway through. "You're not there."

She exhales, wipes at her mouth, and goes again.

"Louder," he cuts in mid-chorus. "Don't worry about the levels."

"Okay, louder," Daisy mumbles, turning down her volume.

Billy actually lets her get through the take, but she knows it's not right.

He has her sing through the song again and again. Frustration grows in her gut, twisting like vines around her diaphragm and itching against her throat.

"Now sing it like I really fucking pissed you off."

Daisy's brow furrows, and she huffs, "It's not an angry song, Billy, it's just sad."

"Yeah, just like that," he volleys back, smirking.

He's so annoying. And Daisy is, actually, really fucking pissed. But he's been back in her life for two days, and she doesn't know how long he'll be here. She can see him disappearing tomorrow like an apparition she wished into being, can feel him slipping away in two weeks like sand through an hourglass, their time together short and liminal. Their relationship feels like a wound that's still healing, tender to the touch. She's afraid to really poke at it but can’t seem to stop brushing her fingers around the edges.

Closing her eyes, she splays her hand across her stomach and inhales. Billy starts the track before she's ready, and Daisy’s irritation ticks at the base of her skull. She comes in a beat too late, and he stops her a few lines in.

"Again."

She stares at Billy: his mouth pressed flat and thin, his hair wavy, one too many buttons undone on his navy shirt. Daisy remembers telling him everything, dropping the most precious tidbits of her life like breadcrumbs for him to pick up, leading him straight to the center of her soul. She remembers the pleasant buzz behind her forehead when she would meet his eyes and it felt like he was reading her mind. And she remembers how crazy he made her feel, the lies he told everyone, told her and told himself.

"Stop," he says in the middle of the final chorus. "You're angry, Daisy."

It sounds like an accusation.

"Fuck you," she says. "Again."

She scream-sings it at him three times, and then on the fourth, her voice breaks, cracking around a vowel. Her chest feels scooped hollow, and her hands tremble.

The speaker clicks on, and Daisy's ready to throw the cans down and storm away, maybe cry in the bathroom like she did once in elementary school. But Billy's voice is quiet and soothing: "How do you like your tea?"

"There should be a packet in my bag," she says, wiping beneath her nose with the back of her hand, worried about snot instead of powder. She takes the headphones off and sits on the floor, eyes closed and breathing uneven, until she hears the door open.

"Here," Billy says, handing her one of the studio's mugs instead of a styrofoam cup. The tea bag still floating inside. Daisy inhales the scent of lemongrass. She slurps it up. The tea is hot, sweet with honey and tart with extra lemon slices. It warms her chest almost painfully.

Billy looks down at her, resting a hand gently on her shoulder, warm and barely there through the thin fabric of her cardigan. It burns. "Whenever you're ready."

He goes back into the control room, and Daisy wraps her hands around the mug until she can’t stand the heat against her palms. She takes another sip of tea before placing it on a nearby stool. Putting the headphones back on, she shakes out her hands and clears her throat, feeling too much to overthink. "I'm ready."

The track starts. She meets Billy's eyes; she sings.

She almost has it.

"One more," she tells him.

Daisy closes her eyes through the first verse, and when they flutter open in the middle of the chorus, her lashes are sticky. By the time she reaches the bridge, a tear trails down her cheek and hits the corner of her mouth. Her voice breaks during the outro, and her heart feels too big for her chest, too big for anyone.

The track finishes. She wipes at wet eyes and wet cheeks. Daisy's sure her face is blotchy and red and ugly. She runs cold without the drugs, but her body feels overheated, scraped up like a knee against pavement.

And then Billy's in front of her, scooping her into his arms, smoothing the hair at the back of her head, and mumbling, "We got it, we got it, you did it, you did it."

A whole new set of tears pour out of her, and Daisy shudders against him, face pressed into his neck, inhaling his cologne.

"You did it," Billy assures her. "You did it."

Billy told Daisy he wasn't going to be able to stop by again until Sunday. Between actually producing, driving Julia to softball, therapy, and date night with Camila, it wouldn't be possible.

Her eyes were still puffy, wide and haunted, like she didn't really believe he was telling the truth.

"Okay," she said, like she was already talking to an empty space, faux smile barely tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Billy stops by a gas station, wanders around the store and considers picking up something for Daisy, a pack of cookies or a bag of chips or a soda. A half-hearted apology for the wrong thing.

By the time he arrives, he's no more than five minutes late, but Daisy's already there, messing with the controls. Sparing him a passing glance, she says, "Hey. You made it." Her shoulders relax almost imperceptibly. Billy is self-aware enough to realize the problem is that he noticed and wants to place his hand between the wings of her shoulder blades.

The problem is that she barged into the studio almost a week ago, and his desire to stay overrode his desire to run.

"Had to get gas," he says.

She hums, sliding up the guitar level before sliding it back down. "How was softball?"

"Good. Julia can't even hit a ball on a tee, so she'll probably be done with it soon. She's only sticking with it now because she made a commitment." Julia feels like safe territory somehow, like a reminder of what he has at home without the guilt permeating it. Billy still worries about fucking up and constantly second guesses every single parenting decision he makes, but he has planted himself firmly in her life. He isn’t worried about abandoning her or making her want to abandon him.

"It's good that you're making her finish the season," Daisy says.

"I would've let her quit."

Daisy looks down, mouth twisting before she meets his eye again, composed and alight. "Me too."

"It's impossible to say no to her."

"I can imagine."

Sadness pinches between Billy's ribs. If he had a current picture in his wallet, he'd show her. He wants to show Daisy his life, at least the good parts that make it worth living, the parts that would make her smile and none of the ones that would make her sad or angry. If he’s being honest, he wants to show her those parts, too, but he knows the slope is slippery.

It's remarkably easy to be here with Daisy despite the looming presence of the past. The minefield they're walking seems worthwhile, but it could just be that they haven't stepped on any explosive devices yet. The thrill of it pulses in his fingertips, the sense that they're getting away with something.

But Daisy has never really let Billy get away with much.

"You solve any problems over the last few days?" he asks, nodding toward the tapes she's already spooled.

"Obviously." She rolls her eyes. "You're not that important."

"Right." Ducking his head, he can’t fight his smile. "What've you got for me today?"

She plays a track about dancing, about switching partners until you find the right one. A little bittersweet, peppered with relationships she's had. Billy doesn't think too deeply about them. The first day, he wanted to ask. He wanted the backstory, every detail, the guy's name and address, fist curling so tightly his blunt nails dug into his palm. He had to remind himself that whatever pain she'd put into the song, it was a brief pinch compared to the devastation he'd caused, chronicled in a handful of tracks on her first album.

Billy hadn't planned on listening to it, but Julia saw it at the record store, tugged on Camila's skirt and pointed. Camila bought it for her, eyes shrouded with intrigue of her own and a need to know. Billy bristled, wondering if she didn't trust him or thought he was lying or holding back in counseling.

Camila listened first, with Julia, while Billy went on a second run. She didn't look at him for a week after, jaw clenched and back to him in bed, spine straight and tight. Three days later, she asked him to sleep in the guest room.

It pissed him off, as though Daisy's music was his fault, as though Daisy's recollection of the relationship mattered more than how hard Billy had been working. He rented an apartment for six months after rehab because Camila wouldn't let him come home. He was in weekly therapy, individual and couples, and he was trying harder than he'd ever tried at anything.

It still didn't seem to be enough.

Billy knows that Camila experienced trauma. That's what their couples counselor said: "Infidelity is a traumatic event." He could expect Camila to run hot and cold, to be fine one day, and the next, with no explicable explanation, hurt and angry. It doesn't make it any easier to swallow down his responding anger and bitterness, the urge to ask if she's ever going to get over it, if she's ever going to truly forgive him, and what the fuck they're even doing if she's not?

He sneaked out of the guest bedroom in the middle of the night, padding down the stairs, attuned to any creak in the wood and gust of wind against the siding. He placed Daisy's record on the player, volume turned down as low as it would go. Leaning down, ear practically against the speaker, he listened. During the first run through, Billy didn't process any of the lyrics. He closed his eyes and soaked up Daisy's voice. It fizzed inside his head, warm, slightly raspy, soothing. He was almost afraid to breathe.

He played it again, and he started to hear everything she put into it: her relationship with her mother, the empty space of her present but indifferent father, the struggle of rehab, the flimsy, fleeting flings she rolled into and out of without a scratch. And him.

Billy knew he had treated Daisy poorly and that it hurt her, but he hadn't realized how bad it had really been. He cried, hunched over in the shadows, biting his knuckles to keep quiet.

"That's great, Daisy," he says when the track fades away.

She arches an eyebrow. "That all you got?"

"It's a single."

She rests her chin in her palm and cocks her head. "Then why don't I love it?"

He shrugs.

She purses her lips, and then she starts the song again, standing and swaying to the beat of Warren's smooth, propulsive drums. She hums underneath her breath, eyes slipping closed and spinning in a careful circle. "Get up."

"What?"

"Get up," she repeats, lifting her arms and leaning her head back. "What's the point of a song about dancing if it doesn't make you want to dance?"

When they were writing Aurora, Daisy would stand unceremoniously, moving her body to whatever riff Billy was playing on his guitar, or picking one of Teddy's records and allowing it to dictate her movements. If Billy was feeling particularly cruel, he'd think it was the excess energy from whatever pills she'd taken. The reality, though, felt more like the music moved through her, a spark she couldn't contain and a connection she couldn’t sever.

He learned to like watching her dance, even when he scoffed in annoyance and told her she was wasting time, even when he liked it so much it spun all the way back around to become something he hated.

"Billy," Daisy says seriously, still swaying. She moves her hand like she wants to reach out and haul him to his feet herself.

It's the fact that she doesn't that gets him up.

She grins, delighted. Her eyes are a warm blue-green, crinkling around the corners. Something swoops inside Billy's chest. He vaguely shifts his weight from one foot to the other, not really dancing, but not quite still, either. He watches her movements, the smooth flow of them, almost a counterpoint to the sharp staccato driving the song forward. There's a strip of skin between her top and her jeans, pale and smooth, and Billy doesn't linger on it or the swaying of her hips.

He swallows.

"Do you think it's the piano?" Daisy asks. "Owes too much to the bass and drums? I had it different before, but I thought it was too disconnected."

When the track stops, he sits and scratches at the seam on the outer thigh of his jeans and watches Daisy set up a different version of the song.

"I think I want it to sound like this," she says, referring to the ebb and flow of her movements, almost ballet-esque. This version is better. Older, too, like Daisy knew what she wanted but didn't have all the pieces in the same puzzle. She looks down at him, mouth twitching before she turns, her back arching. Billy thinks, maybe meanly, selfishly, and wistfully, that she's dancing for him instead of the song now.

He worked so hard back then, to convince himself that it was addiction, hers and his, that drew him to Daisy. She was all the things he couldn't have personified. But he's no longer white knuckling his sobriety, holding onto Camila so tightly that the moment she slips away he tumbles. And Daisy is clean, a clarity to her that's new.

Her eyes flutter closed, and she mouths the words, drawing circles with her wrist, fingers long and thin. Billy feels his breath trapped inside his lungs, entranced and unable to look away until the track ends and something clicks into place behind Daisy’s eyes. She works out the song herself and has Billy transcribe the notes to staff paper. When he hands it to her, a crease forms between her eyebrows as she studies it. She grabs the pencil and marks legato lines and slurs.

Daisy doesn't need him here. Not really.

Her first album was great. She doesn't have Teddy to produce for her now, but Billy knows this album is going to be great, too. Greatness lives inside Daisy with such ease that it blots out any doubts.

She plays a chord, holding down the damper pedal so it rings out and fades slowly.

She smiles at him softly, triumphant.

She wants him here.

Billy feels it now, the pull of Daisy, vibrating in his lungs and holding, too slow to fade. She might be more dangerous sober than she ever was high. Everything is stripped away, and he's still drawn to her. With the studio's hazy lighting, the remnants of a G minor chord humming in the background, and her clear, present gaze, Billy's having a hard time remembering why all the reasons he shouldn't want her have to outweigh all the reasons he does.

Working with Billy again is as easy as breathing. As long as Daisy ignores everything outside the studio, it's like no time has passed. Like there’s no risk of inhaling poison.

"What would you do if I told you the problem was the drums?" he asks.

She has two days left in the studio, and this is the last song she needs to crack. She shrugs. "I'd call Warren."

He nods.

They both know that if she calls Warren, Billy will have to leave.

"Is it the drums?" she asks before sipping the tea he brought her.

His eyes sweep across her face like he's trying to commit the contours to memory, and Daisy feels it like a physical touch, warm molasses running sweet through her blood and prompting a sugar high. Each breath she takes is heavy and deep, purposeful. The lights are dim, just the way she likes, and she tries not to think about consciously setting the mood. She thought -- maybe -- but no, she never stopped loving him. The difference is now, if he doesn't love her back, she won't feel undeserving of the emotion, incapable of getting it elsewhere.

Daisy has begun to excavate herself, has begun learning to love herself so even her mistakes and regrets don't feel so fatal. She doesn’t have to rip herself open to hide herself away.

"No," Billy lies.

"Yes," Daisy says. "Why do you think I saved it for last?"

He inhales, sharp and audible.

"It's still early," she adds, the sentence hanging in the air.

"Almost eleven is early?"

Daisy shrugs. "For me."

Billy nods and rubs at the back of his neck. "You want to get something to eat?"

She mostly expected him to say goodbye and head home. Almost two weeks of creating together ending with a whimper, but enough to sustain whatever alive thing flows between them.

Turns out he’s still just as good at surprising her as being predictable.

"Sure."

Billy offers to drive, and Daisy considers arguing just to see his jaw clench. She wonders if he'd surprise her again. But as she shuts the studio door behind her, she gets a whiff of his cologne, and she remembers the way his scent permeated the car, even with the windows down it seemed to linger, embedding itself into the cotton of her clothes.

Fiddling with the radio, she catches him glancing at her as she tries on every station to find the best fit. It flops around her stomach, and she bites her bottom lip to keep herself from saying something she shouldn't. "Faithfully" seems like a reminder they don't need; "We've Got Tonight" seems too on the nose; "You Should Hear How She Talks About You" makes Daisy feel more vulnerable than baring her soul in the songs she shared with him -- one that had Billy all over it needed fixing, and she consulted with Waylon, working on it over a couple of the nights when Billy couldn't make it. She settles on "Come On Eileen."

The corner of his mouth tucks itself up, and she asks, "What?"

"Nothing." He adjusts his grip on the wheel, shoulders loose and relaxed.

"Tell me."

"No, it's nothing, I just knew you'd like this song."

"It's a good song," she insists. "It's catchy."

"You've got that same fire in you," he says. "Reminds me of you."

If Daisy was afraid of what the radio would reveal, Billy doesn’t seem to share those same concerns. Her face feels warm, and her heart beats in her throat, and the lyrics become static in her ears.

She shifts her legs, pointing her knees toward Billy and mapping out his profile while he's occupied. She focuses on him so she doesn’t have to focus on her reaction to him. He's a little older and more worn. Daisy likes that, thinks it makes him look even more in tune with the sound of his voice. She tries to find excess stress, shame, guilt, lies, and all of the things that used to ricochet back to her and cut until she bled. They’re not present, which she knows doesn't mean much. Depending on where he's standing, where the line they can't cross lies in his vision, and how badly he wants to cross it, his anger can retreat or make itself known.

Billy pulls up to some diner in Encino. Daisy has never been here before, but the fluorescents aren't too bright and the booth they slide into is covered in vinyl and cracking from use. A few other patrons are scattered around, and Daisy feels their eyes glancing her way, recognition in their gazes before they turn back to their own meals and conversations.

She and Billy order a reuben and plate of fries to split.

"This place is nice," Daisy says, wedging her hands beneath her thighs.

"I used to come here at night." He clears his throat. "After rehab, the second time. I was renting this apartment ten minutes from here. It was a good place to sit and think, or to try not to think."

Daisy looks toward the counter and the clear dish with the half-eaten pie on display, the waitress puttering around behind it, gray hairs escaping her bun. There’s a jukebox in the corner, and the floor tiles need new grout. "Seems like a good place for that."

Billy presses his thumb against a trail of condensation dripping down his water glass, wiping it away. His wedding band is shiny and bright around his left ring finger. It pinches painfully behind Daisy's ribs, and she bites the inside of her cheek. She finds herself swallowing down her question about the apartment. She would have asked it in the 70s before it got too complicated and it would have come out with too much of something she can’t quite name.

Daisy can piece it together well enough, anyway, feels the reciprocal vulnerability he's offering for her own exposure.

"Yeah, it is... was," he says.

"I like it," Daisy decides. It doesn't feel homey, but it feels old-timey and almost anonymous.

Billy's eyes are wide and revealing, gratitude in the corners, and a lump forms in Daisy's throat.

When the waitress delivers the food and an extra plate, she claims the sandwich slice that looks marginally larger.

"We should've ordered two," Billy says, finishing his half in about three bites.

They discuss Daisy's plans for the rest of the year: album release, promotion, tour. "I'm going to have Curtis re-record the guitar parts you fixed," she says, thumb sticky with salt.

"That's fine."

"Which solves one problem." She scrapes the salt off her thumb with her teeth, and Billy averts his eyes, grabbing one of the last fries, limp and soggy. "But you should still be credited."

"Daisy." Billy lays his hand flat next to his plate, an aborted motion as though he intended to reach over and grab hers. "You don't owe me anything."

That's not true. She thinks they both owe a lot to each other. But she knows what he means, and she figures it will be a problem for him and his life if one of Camila's friends or their children purchase the album and find his name in the liner notes. He won't be able to explain it in any way other than a lie, and Daisy would rather he not lie about her again. A lie of omission has more breathing room. Easier for Daisy to live with.

She doesn't think about all the lies he must've already told about her, to be sitting across from her in this diner as she twirls a straw around her diet coke.

"Okay," she says. His fingers inch forward, her stomach clenches, and he grabs a napkin. "I'll get the check."

"We can split it."

"Consider it your fee," she says.

Billy raises an eyebrow and tuts. "So that's how much my expertise costs?"

"Don't get a big head, asshole, I'm rounding up."

The way he shakes his head and laughs is so familiar, soft and worn like one of the old letters Simone sends her, reread when Daisy's having a bad day or misses her. It's enough to remind Daisy that Billy will always sit inside her heart, tucked away into a special, scarred corner and taking up more room than she gives him.

When Billy drops Daisy off at the studio, she shuffles through her bag for a cigarette. He watches her tamp the pack before pulling one out. He watches the spark of her lighter and the flicker of its flame as she lights her Parliament, the cherry burning bright. Leaning against her car, she inhales, her chest rising with it, and then she exhales, looking right at him.

His key is still in the ignition.

Daisy walks toward him, and he shuts the car off. She leans close, hair hanging in loose waves and brushing against him. She holds out her pack. "You want one, or do you just want to watch?"

He rolls his eyes, and she stumbles back when he opens the car door. Billy takes a cigarette, cupping his hand to block the nonexistent wind and lighting it with the end of hers. They stay close to each other, hovering like smoke. She smells like grease, something earthy around the edges, and a squeeze of lemon underneath it all. Her skin looks extra pale beneath the haze of the streetlights, and her eyes sparkle.

She's easy to be around, even when she's irritating. That first "Honeycomb" session, Billy had already been annoyed, but Daisy had leaned into it rather than veering away. He ground his teeth. He told himself she wasn't his type, despite knowing all the way back in middle school that his type was girls, and in a more genuine, serious way, girls that pushed back and didn't take shit. Not only had Daisy refused to wilt or let him wrestle control, but she had heard his song and found everything that was missing, all the things he was desperately trying to spackle over. She had stared into him without knowing him and said everything he was hoping nobody could see.

It felt like a curse.

It felt like a gift he didn't deserve.

Billy feels himself uncoiling with her, or he feels like it's okay that he's wound too tightly. Even when he pisses her off, it feels okay. He can be himself, and Daisy will understand. He's never been as viscerally, incandescently angry as he has with her, and once he stopped blaming her for it, he realized that she saw the truth in it. She saw the truth in him.

"Will you play your album for me?" He inhales and holds the smoke in his mouth.

She looks up at him, surprised and tender, open. "Yeah, if you want that."

"I do." He drops the cigarette to the ground, stubbing it out beneath his foot.

Daisy takes another drag of hers and her mouth rounds as she exhales. "I can give you my number."

He swallows. "I'd like that."

She looks up at the navy sky, the moon almost full, and her bottom lip catches between her teeth. Daisy flicks some ash to the ground, and when she shifts her weight, her arm brushes against his, a phantom thing that prickles at the back of his neck.

Billy watches her smoke the rest of her Parliament, and his lungs feel tight and small like the first time.

"Billy," she says, squashing the butt with her toe.

He hums acknowledgement.

"I've really liked this," she whispers.

Daisy has always been the brave one.

Billy tries to remember why they can't do this. The betrayal it would be and the hurt it would cause. But Daisy's looking up at him with wide eyes, and he knows exactly what she's feeling, because it's wedged in his own chest, too. He knows what it's like to be without her, like someone pried him open and pulled something essental out, leaving him hollow and wanting. He knows what it's like to have her mouth beneath his, sure yet yielding, and he knows what it's like to go without. A gnawing hunger that feels like it originates in his soul rather than his body.

He wraps his fingers around her wrist, feels her bones and tendons, fragile and breakable. She's beautiful. Daisy is the most beautiful person Billy has ever seen, and it feels almost narcissistic every time he's thought it, because he sees so much of himself in her.

Billy wants to warn her. He hasn't changed enough. She deserves more, and she deserves better. He hasn't thought ahead.

"It's okay," she says, eyelashes casting spiderwebs across her cheekbones. "I'll be okay."

Billy has given up many things and ideas over the last few years, performing and fame and his ideal of a working marriage. But Daisy is the loss he has always felt the most acutely, the most cruelly. Sober and honest, it is an unavoidable truth: He loves her. He loves her, and he does not think he can give her up again.

He squeezes her wrist, and she shifts closer.

Billy closes his eyes and kisses Daisy, inhaling her. She’s a swirl of smoke and a breath of oxygen, something empty inside him refilled. His hands find her face, holding her steady, her mouth a gasp and her body arching toward his. Daisy tastes like salt and ash and diet coke, and Billy must taste almost the same. Her hands find his waist, twisting in his shirt and hauling him closer. She nips at his bottom lip and slips her tongue into his mouth, running it along his teeth, a dare or a trust exercise. His head goes hazy and heady.

When the need for another kind of air forces them to part, Billy sees Daisy’s eyes flash with the memory of a different first kiss in this same parking lot. He slides a palm against the side of her neck, swiping his thumb along the edge of her jaw. "I've missed this," he says. She knows what he means, but she smiles a wane thing. "I've missed you," he clarifies.

"I just need to know." Daisy smooths a hand over his heart. "Are you still going to call?"

Billy presses his forehead against hers. It wouldn't be a compulsion. It wouldn't be something impossible to resist, even if he feels it that way: inevitable. "Yes."

Her hand flexes against his chest.

Her smile is almost nonexistent, but it's there, a shadow folded into the corner of her mouth, so Billy kisses her again. Her lips work soft and warm against his until a pair of headlights cut across them and break them apart. Daisy writes her number on the diner receipt, crinkling it into his hand, and Billy puts it into his wallet behind the picture of a three-year-old Julia.