They tell you that posting frequently will naturally bring more followers. Well, guess what? I post every single day, and at this rate, my follower count will reach 5000 just in time for my 80th birthday. Won’t that be nice? I can celebrate by buying a new package of adult diapers.
“How’d it go?”Gemma asks when I walk in the door a couple hours later. She’s got her laptop at the kitchen counter, hair tied up as it is 99% of the time. She’s working, no doubt.
“I got a ten-dollar bill today,” I say.
Gemma’s brows go up, but before she can congratulate me, I add, “Because a guy thought my case was a convenient way to break his bill for change.”
Gemma’s hand flies to her mouth, covering a little snort.
“It’s not funny, Gem.” But my lips pull up at the edges.
She drops her hand and clears her throat, doing a decent-but-not-great job of controlling the twitch at the corner of her mouth.
“He listened so intently to half of a song,” I say. “But I realize now he was probably making sure I had enough ones.”
Gemma slings her arm around my shoulders. “Don’t worry, sis. These are the stories you’ll tell to inspire other young artists when you’ve made it big in five years.”
I shake my head and set my guitar case against the wall. “Or maybe I should call it quits. At what point do I throw in the towel and admit it’s not going to happen for me?”
She pulls her arm from around my shoulders so she can face me. “Listen to me, Mia.” She takes my cheeks inher hands and looks me in the eye. “You were born to do music. Do. Not. Give. Up. Okay? Promise me.”
I swallow, then nod. I don’twantto give up on music. With everything in me, I want this to be what I do. I want to make music. I want to create. I want to sing the words people are too afraid to say. The things I feel when I write a new song and when I belt it at the top of my lungs? I want people to feel those same things when they listen to it.
“I promise,” I say.
She lets go of my face and turns to her computer, the screen reflecting in her eyes. I wish I could be like Gemma—content with spreadsheets and stability and stretch goals.
But I’m not. Some fundamental part of me gravitates toward chaos and messiness and never having enough to pay the bills.
“I think I’ll go to the pool,” I say.
Gemma’s eyes stay on the screen, but she reaches over and pets my hair from my crown to where it ends below my neck. “Don’t drown.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Gemma and I were basically raised in a pool. We were those infants whose parents—Dad, specifically—tossed them into the deep end so they’d learn to float. I could do a full lap without coming up for air by the time I was seven and a solid butterfly stroke when I was nine.
I credit those breathing skills for helping me with my singing. It’s why I like going there late some nights, after the pool is officially closed—perks of being the owner’s daughter. Doing a few laps calms me down; I get to practice my breathing,andthe acoustics in the women’s locker room are amazing.
After a day of being yelled at on the phone and then passed by as I offered my soul via busking, I’m so ready for some alone time.
2
AUSTIN
“All I’m asking isa couple of songs, Paul.” I slip my wireless earbud in and toss the phone on the bed, freeing my hands to rifle through my suitcase.
“I know.” He sighs. “And I promise I’ll do my best, but… I want to be straight with you, Austin. It’s not looking likely. They want the setlist to be full of what your fans already know and love.”
Which are not the songsyouwrite. I’m well aware of this, and so is Paul. He’s been my manager for years now, and I know it’s not his fault. He goes to bat for me with my label, Fusion Records, but they have a very specific image they’re trying to portray with my brand, and apparently, my slow ballads don’t screamsex iconloudly enough—or lend themselves to ripping my shirt off, which has become inextricably tied to my reputation.
“The good news,” Paul continues, sounding a lot more chipper, “is that, if the tour goes well…” He pauses for dramatic effect, a smile in his voice.
I pull out my swim trunks and hold them in front of me, considering them. I haven’t been for a swim in a while, and it’s sounding kind of nice at the moment.
“…there’s the possibility of extending it and adding a U.S. leg.”
I go still, swimsuit hovering in the air. “Wait. Seriously?”
