“You’re you here,” I corrected her. “You go be fucking Goldilocks for a damn record label, then you’re selling yourself short. They’re watering you down. You should be singing the songs you sing in your bed to me. We go down to the lilacs in the woods, and you sing your heart out, Kee. That song you sing with your mom in the kitchen, the world wants that. That’s what you deserve, and what your family—” “My family,” she emphasized and suddenly straightened, “wants me to go just like I want to go.” “What the fuck did that record label tell you?” Something was wrong. “They told me I can make it.
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