"So, how does this work exactly?" Eddie would take a thousand punches to the head if it meant she never felt as uncomfortable as she did in that moment ever again. Each of her concussions were nicer to her brain than what it felt like at that particular moment. She'd been five minutes early to her own doom via Zoom call. Her doom call.

Her and the man on the other side of the screen had been sitting in silence for the better half of twenty minutes, spare a couple of cleared throats and a casual hello when he'd first signed on. Eddie simultaneously didn't know where to start and didn't want to ever start.

Some part of her hoped that soon enough, she'd be woken up by the sound of Axel snoring in bed beside her and the entire Giovanni Perez debacle would've never happened so there wasn't the pressing need for her to try and talk about every problem that has ever plagued her.

"Well, you talk about whatever you'd like to talk about. I'll listen. We see if we're a good fit for each other. And, eventually, we help you cope with problems."

"How do you know if we're a good fit?"

"We can do a couple sessions, see if you start to open up more," he said. It probably came with the career path he'd chosen, but Eddie couldn't deny he was easily the most patient man she'd ever met. "And I recognize that comes from trust, and that can be scary. But more often than not, we get there. And if we get there, it's pretty easy to tell whether we're a good match for each other or not."

"Have you ever been to a shrink, Roman?"

Roman Sahota looked kinder than Eddie expected the average therapist did. And she wasn't lying on a couch, hands on her abs, talking about her feelings so that was a bonus. Evidently, that was not how this worked. He even looked kind while he was writing in the notebook he said he'd have with him. That kind of pissed Eddie off.

He smiled at her. "I have. Still go."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yes," Roman said. "But we do eventually have to talk about you if you'd really like to try this out."

"You know when you, like, fuck up a knee or something, you go see a physiotherapist, right?" Eddie asked.

"Yes."

"Well. I fucked up my shoulder early in my career. Didn't turn into much, but I needed to rehab it to make sure it didn't become a problem," Eddie said. "Eventually, he told me I didn't have to come back unless it happened again."

"You're wanting to know if that's what therapy's like?"

Eddie shrugged. Nodded. Leaned back into her seat on the couch like getting farther away from her laptop's camera would keep Roman from knowing her darkest secrets.

"I guess it depends on what we're talking about."

"That's cryptic."

"Let's talk about you. You're here, so you obviously want to feel better about something. Do you want to talk about that something?"

"Why don't you have that question on your intake form?" Eddie asked. "Don't you want to know what you're signing up for when I book an appointment?"

"It's personal," Roman said.

"You're a shrink. Isn't personal your whole thing?"

"Comes back to trusting the person you're talking to," Roman said. "Most therapists know we have to earn our clients' trust. I don't expect you to make a breakthrough on the first session."

"How long does it usually take for a breakthrough?" Eddie was asking questions before her brain could tell her she wasn't going to like the answer.

"Depends on the person."

"How long for me?"

"I don't know," Roman said. "We haven't spoken about anything yet."

"What's the average?"

"Depends on the problem."

Eddie sighed.

"What's the problem?"

Where would she even begin?

"What if I never say it?"

"We can't do much work without specifics, but I'm happy to try if you just want to chat."

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"You can," Roman said. "But you'll have to decide that for yourself."

"What the fuck does this even do?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, it's not going to make the problem go away," Eddie said. "I can sit here and yap about my bullshit all day long, but you can't take a magic eraser and clean up my past to make me better. So... what's the point?"

"It's more about learning to cope with the past to build a better future."

"Sounds like a brochure for a spa treatment."

"Consider it a spa treatment for your brain if you'd like. We also make sure you're internalizing things less and vocalizing them more. It's a share the burden and the burden becomes lesser kind of thing."

Eddie rolled her eyes and she didn't even see Roman flinch at the sight of her disgust. That made her all the more upset she was even in the meeting. "I could just do that with my fists."

"That doesn't sound very productive."

"You don't know me well enough to know what I consider productivity."

Roman wrote something down. Quickly.

"What are you writing?"

"I usually don't—"

"Thought we were supposed to vocalize."

"You are the client here, Eddie."

"I want to know if we're going to fit."

Roman sighed and it brought Eddie less pleasure than she thought it would. It likely wasn't supposed to be as loud as it actually was. "I'm curious as to why you're asking questions but challenging all my answers."

"'Cause I think shrinks are full of shit."

Roman's eyebrows raised a little. "That was one of my running theories."

"Does that mean there's more than one?"

"There usually will be at the start," Roman said. "Can I ask you a question, now?"

Eddie thought about it for a moment. "I guess."

"Why did you book this appointment if you don't think therapy works?"

Roman Sahota might as well have punched Eddie in the stomach. He might as well have said that the part of Eddie that wanted to make herself better always lost to the part of her that wanted to protect the little girl who had been hurt too many times.

"I—" It was one of Eddie's many flaws that she got defensive when someone called her out of her shit. Just because she knew the flaw existed didn't mean she could fight it. "Why does it matter? Aren't you getting paid whether I say anything or not? Your intake form didn't hold back on how much this is costing me. My e-transfer probably already deposited itself in your bank account."

Roman sat back in his seat a little. He knitted his fingers together in front of him. Let her sit with that statement in silence. Refused to help her see that he was there to help, because he didn't need to prove that to her. There were degrees on the wall behind his head that did that. If she was going to be stubborn, it wasn't up to him to beg her to talk about her bullshit.

Eddie crossed her arms. She wanted to lean back on her couch but she couldn't get any farther from her laptop. Her shoulders were pressed against the leather, a divot made in the pillow with her body.

"I think our time may be up for the day." The slightly soured expression on Roman's face made a part of Eddie proud that she'd pissed him off to the point of cutting the appointment early. The other part of her made her nauseous she'd wasted his time when she wasn't ready to drive herself to the Golden Gate and see how close she could get to Alcatraz if she jumped as far as she could.

"Gotta make sure you get those ten minutes of free money, huh?"

"Please email the same person you emailed before if you'd like to book another appointment."

"How often do you steal people's money?"

To his credit, Roman kept his cool despite Eddie being a bitch. "Depending on the problem, people book appointments as needed. Some book once a month, some once a week. It depends on how long that they need to talk with someone who's willing to listen."

"And do they actually believe that you're helping?"

"I can see that I am."

"Well," Eddie said, "better get to your next appointment, then."

*

Eddie liked the sounds of the city. The bell on a cable car, the traffic, the tourists. It kept her brain from yelling too loud at her. Maybe that was why she loved going for walks instead of facing her problems. Coach was forced to make Eddie do cardio. He didn't question how she got it—but odds were, sex or walking was the way.

Maybe it was subconscious she walked where she had. Maybe it was because he still hadn't replied to anything she sent him. Maybe it was because she hoped by some miracle his album wasn't actually done and she could catch even a glimpse of him.

It was probably intrusive that she walked right into the building, but the receptionist didn't stop her.

Eddie found Kingston Maverick in the one place he liked to run away to when things got tough: the studio. She supposed they were similar in that regard; Eddie liked to go to the gym and punch a bag, a person. Sparring was her therapy. That, or she walked the length of the city in hopes everything in her brain would stay quiet. If it was quiet, she couldn't beat herself up for everything she wasn't. Music was Maverick's. Anything that brought a tune to the room was everything he needed it to be at any given moment.

When Eddie reached his room, he was lying on the floor, back pressed against the short carpet. Ankles crossed, legs on the seat of the chair his sound person usually sat on. (Or him if he was helping someone like Axel.) (Axel was nowhere in sight.) A guitar in hand. Strumming away. Eddie couldn't quite place the tune but knew she'd heard it before and it wasn't one of his songs. His curls were blonde, glasses on the floor beside him. That was new. Probably something she wasn't going to mention.

Dropping her wallet and keys beside the door, Eddie took a couple steps forward. Made sure he could see her in his peripheral before she picked up his glasses and put them somewhere he wasn't going to step on them. She laid down beside him. Fingers knit across her abs, ankles crossed, and legs on the floor. Stared up at the ceiling tiles that weren't remotely interesting enough to have intrigued one of the best songwriters in the world.

"How's it going?"

"So well," Maverick said. The tune still strumming. "I sent everyone home because what's the use in paying them to watch me sit here and mope? Real fucking diva moment while I give my career away."

Eddie pursed her lips for a moment. "Seems useful to have people here to tell you you're doing well."

"I can't even write a fucking song, Eddie. I'm not doing well. What's the fucking point?"

"Do I really have to say it?"

"I don't need your pity."

"I don't waste my breath on things I don't mean. Contrary to popular belief."

Maverick sighed. "You're going to say what Everleigh said. What Stevie said. What my sister said, what my mom said. What Jun said, what Nora said. What Moxie and Mick said. What fucking Troy and Roman said."

"Who's Troy again?" Eddie was going to keep it to herself that she knew who Roman was. For now. Especially after lashing out at him for doing his job.

"My father-in-law." Maverick pinched the bridge of his nose for a second before tossing his hand in the air. Brought it back down to continue strumming. "Kind of. I guess."

"Right," Eddie said. "And what did they say that I'm going to say?"

"Bunch of bullshit about how I know what I'm doing and how I can't take things personally."

"You don't know what you're doing?"

"How am I supposed to write a song when I have that asshole in the back of my head nagging me about how I'm not allowed to sing about my own fucking life in any capacity I want to?" Maverick asked. His anger wasn't at Eddie, but, boy, it sure felt like it was.

"What are you playing?"

"You don't know Purple Rain?"

"Judgement."

"Sorry."

"Songs need lyrics for me to place them sometimes," Eddie said. "Sing me a couple bars?"

"I'm not in the mood."

"Well, if you're giving up on this album—"

"I didn't say that."

"You said you're giving your career away."

"I mean..." Maverick stopped strumming the guitar. "I don't see the point. I—I haven't had a break in five years. And now that it's becoming the break, and now I have this bullshit article, I don't... I can't... It's like. Like I know people won't care because why would they when it's the last one and I'm just some idiot accused of this? Nobody ever likes the last one. I'm planning a fucking tour and all it's going to be are empty stadiums across the world. Singing into... nothingness. Darkness."

"I like Return of the Jedi," Eddie said after a moment. She tried not to think about how Axel would probably have something to say about that.

"That's not the last one. Rise of Skywalker is. And then there are all the spin-offs. Or whatever the fuc—" Maverick waved his hand dismissively. Not even mad at Eddie for the comparison, mad at himself for not knowing the words to speak. "It's not the same. The way I'm feeling right now, I don't even want to do the tour because I don't want to hear him telling me about my own relationships while I sing my songs."

"Return of the King."

"Also had spin-offs. And prequels."

"Maybe you need to ask for—"

"It defeats the entire purpose of my career if I ask for help."

"Why?"

"Because—" Maverick swallowed hard. "Because I've dated men. A couple of them. But. They never lasted. I got famous and men got scared about being in a public relationship. And I told them that the world would figure out a way to like us together if we wanted to be together. I didn't write songs about those relationships because I liked them, but we never fell in love. We never had that I would die for them moment. But that doesn't mean I didn't fucking feel anything. It hurt like hell when they left. And now I can't write a song because now they're right. Now... Now all these people hate me because I became public enemy number one overnight. All because of some stupid article, all those boys that could've been something more and weren't were right. Made a liar out of me.

"And—And I've never been ashamed," Maverick said, "you know, to be who I am. Feel what I feel. But reading that article... it's like he stole every word I've ever wanted to sing. And I'm trying not to let it get to me, but it's my career, man. I want to write songs about loving Everleigh. If I can't get lyrics right—then what the fuck do I know about love? And if I don't know anything about love, what the fuck was the point of loving music so much I could make a career out of it—what was the point in all those late nights and early mornings and stupid interviews and fucking school if I just... I mean, I'm nearly 30 years old and—and I'm retiring because I can't stand the idea of not being able to do this fully or—or whatever and if I can't even find words to say I love you to the person I want to spend the rest of my life with then what the hell was I doing this for in the first place? For some asshole to write an article about how I'm secretly faking my sexuality?"

"You know you're not—"

Maverick sniffled and Eddie elected to stare at the ceiling. Last thing he wanted was likely her seeing tears roll down his cheeks and onto the carpet. "If I can't write one fucking song by myself, how the hell can I justify anything I've done in my career? Who's to say I ever deserved... any of this?"

"You realize that makes you a fucking human being right?" Eddie asked. "You don't have to do everything by yourself."

"And how come I can't write my own Purple fucking Rain because none of my bullshit songs have ever come close to—"

"Comparing yourself is not the way—"

"I know you're trying to be nice, but you don't get it," Maverick said. "And, I'm sorry, but I'm really not in the mood to explain it."

"Fuck you."

Maverick stayed quiet.

"I got a concussion in a fight that would've given me the chance to fight for the title a few years ago," Eddie said. "And that killed me a little, Mav. It really did. Killed me enough that I rushed back, got a second concussion. Wicked right hook. Just bam!" Eddie punched the air. "Lights out."

"Eddie—"

"I still get dizzy spells from that, you know." Eddie nodded a little. "Don't remember things as often as I should. Occasionally get these pounding headaches that I can never quite shake. They call it persistent post-concussion syndrome. Most people shake it off after a couple months, at most. But in rare cases? You get hitched for life." She waved her hand. "I'm getting off track. Ha, track. Like a song."

Maverick gave her a small sniff of a laugh. Probably all he had in him.

"All I'm saying is... I fucking get it even if I'm not a musician. Don't rush yourself to something before you do more harm than good. A step back might be worth it. And when you come back to it?" Eddie made an explosion sound with her mouth, her hands miming an atomic bomb's mushroom cloud. "Purple fuckin' Rain, man. It's going to be like you fell in love all over again. And fuck Giovanni Perez for making you feel like you can't write Purple Rain."

"I don't know what kind of cruel asshole is up there controlling fate," Maverick said, "but fuck them for making me fall in love with music and taking away my ability to hear it properly. And fuck them for bringing that dickweed to life. And fuck them for making both of those happen at the same fucking time."

"Fuck them for making you think we wouldn't pack Madison Square Garden to hear you sing musical renditions of your grocery lists."

A glance to Maverick showed that, at the very least, he was smiling through his tears. He played a quick riff on the guitar. "Oyster sauce, green onions, rice noodles, eggs / Gonna make Pad Thai / For the love of my life / Cold raspberry lemonade from Greggs."

"I hope they make Giovanni present your Grammy to you."

"He did already tell me I was number one." Maverick sighed a little.

"Mav—"

"You know," Maverick said, still strumming that guitar softly. Musing. "I didn't even want to be a musician. For a while, at least."

"Really?" To picture Maverick as anything other than one of the greatest musicians of their generation was damn near impossible. And he looked so wholeheartedly depressed that Eddie was almost willing to tell him that's what she thought of him.

"Stupid, right?"

"I mean," Eddie stumbled, "we would've missed out on a ton of great music. But... what did you want to be?"

Maverick laughed. Still a little too hollow. "A pilot. Also stupid."

"Not stupid."

"Kind of stupid. Lost that before I could even try it," Maverick said. "Naturally I heard deaf and I fell back onto music. Guess I got a few good things out of it."

Eddie hummed.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

"I'm not good at sharing my thoughts." Roman Sahota probably clutched his chest and collapsed to his knees on a sidewalk in England from her saying that out loud.

"You have a lot to say even when you pretend you don't."

"I need to say something and I know it's going to sound like I'm dissing your music career but it's the one time I'm not."

"I'm throwing it away so go right ahead," Maverick said.

Eddie punched him in the shoulder. "Stop being such a dick to yourself."

"Ow. Carry on."

"I don't think your life would've changed much if you were a pilot. You'd still have the important stuff."

"How so?" Maverick turned to look at her.

"I had a mental breakdown outside a bar a couple months ago, perhaps you remember."

"Oh, I remember."

"This wonderful person I know came outside to talk me down," Eddie said. "There were a couple mentions of flying, attending to those flights."

"I mean, yeah, that's how we met. I plowed into her."

"Excuse me?"

"That was bad wording. I... literally ran into her. Trying to get to—" Maverick laughed and it sounded genuine that time. "—Concert sound check. In Tokyo. And I was in... Australia."

"How were you so late you were in the wrong country?"

Maverick elected to not explain his flight schedules to her. It would probably give her a headache anyway. "There was a point you were trying to make. I'm sorry I interrupted."

"I just... If you were a pilot, in another universe," Eddie said, "and Leigh was still a flight attendant... you would've still found a way to... you know, exist together. You probably would've had a dog and maybe not two houses but I don't think that would've mattered because you'd have everything you needed."

"Oh." Maverick's eyes shined a little and Eddie refused to let him make her cry. She was not going to feed off someone else's emotions, no ma'am. "That's..."

Eddie nodded. Music might've been Maverick's therapy but it didn't mean a damn thing without a muse.

"I'd miss you guys," Maverick said. But his smile was undeniable. "You. Axel, Rush. Bash, Moxie, Mick, MARS. Fuck, I'd miss Stevie."

"Specifically Stevie outside of MARS?" Eddie laughed.

"You tell her I said that and I'll rip my implant out after I get it with my bare fucking hands to escape her gloating."

"You could've been MARS' private jet pilot."

"Carbon footprint." Maverick whistled. "Ring a ding ding."

Eddie put her hand in front of her mouth like she was talking on a radio. "Good morning musicians, this is your captain speaking."

Maverick laughed. "I think I would've suited some gold wings."

"For the record, you suit this life more," Eddie said as she nudged him with her elbow. "Whether you'd be with Leigh in every universe or not."

Maverick smiled. His fingers had stopped playing Purple Rain, and while Eddie was garbage at placing songs without lyrics, she was almost certain she'd never heard the tune he was presently playing before. A new song, all for Everleigh. For her. No matter what anyone else said.

"Maverick?"

"Yeah?"

"I am really sorry about Giovanni," Eddie said. "You didn't deserve that. Nobody did."

Maverick gave her a small smile."Maybe I'll write a song about the first time I had a dick up my ass andSmall-Dick McGee will shrivel up from the jealousy of being an asshole whonobody wants to fuck."