Once More with Feeling

I'd made mistakes, but I'd paid for them. I'd learned from them. Mostly. I'd continue to learn from them. But not if I kept punishing myself over something I couldn't change. I'd done a bad thing, but I wasn't a bad person. I wasn't beyond salvation. Wasn't beyond love.

There was no pride in being the best of the subpar.

You’re also so fucking good that I can’t look away,” Cal said.

Katee Rose had been beautiful and perfect and manufactured. Until she wasn't. Then she'd been sad, sloppy, and embrassing.

At least I knew from experience that embarrassment wasn’t fatal.

I believe in the power of starting anew,” he said. “Every show, every role, every performance, is a chance to start fresh. Every day is a new opportunity for success. I don’t plan on judging anyone for what you did yesterday, or the day before, or the year before.

I didn’t have the luxury of saying no. Of walking away. And I didn’t want to. This was my chance. And I knew, from experience, that I might not get another. I was lucky to get this one. I wanted this part. Needed this part.

And I loved myself more than I hated Cal.

Just proof of my so-called reputation. The perfect justification for why I couldn’t be cast in the show in the first place. A self-fulfilling prophecy.

Auditions were an opportunity to show exactly what you were capable of. To showcase not just your talent but the innate nerve required to be an artist—an unshakable confidence in your own skills. You needed to believe that you were great—that you were exactly what they were looking for. Some might call it arrogance.

I wasn’t opposed to auditioning as a concept. I understood and respected the purpose of the exercise, and there had even been a time when I reveled in any opportunity to show off. To perform. When that giddy, nervous energy could sustain me for days.

I didn’t smile and I spoke evenly. Slowly.

Apparently he preferred a clean kill.

But I couldn’t escape who I was.

But hope was a dangerous, capricious thing.

If he was trying to catch me off guard, he was going to have to try a lot harder. I was ready for him. Crouched, with tail twitching, just waiting for an opportunity to attack. I might have gotten softer and rounder since he last saw me, but I’d sharpened my claws. Donned some armor.

This book is dedicated to Prozac and Jelly Bellies. I couldn’t have done it without you.

The last time we’d seen each other, he’d called me a “mistake” and I’d told him to get the fuck out of my life. He’d obliged.

He had floppy hair cut like a curtain in the middle of his forehead and a puka shell necklace,