Letting it ring for a few seconds, I try to muster some bravado before I’m about to be chewed out for some unspecified thing. That’s the problem with growing up with a parent like Deacon. There never needed to be a legitimate reason for being yelled at. It would always happen.
“Deacon,” I greet.
“I’m not fucking pleased, Roman.”
“And here I thought you were calling to ask me how my day was.”
“Have you seen mine and Janine’s emails?” he presses. I switch to speakerphone and open the app on my phone. Of course, they’ve flagged a series of emails as “high importance”. Surprisingly, Deacon is silent on the other end of the line for a moment while I flip through the emails quickly.
Greetings Deacon,
It would appear we’ve got some celebrity gossip sources questioning the legitimacy of Roman and Clover’s relationship–see below.
Warmest of Regards,
- Janine Weavers
Scanning down, I see the email in question.
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Request for Comment–Roman & Clover
Ms. Weavers, as you know, we operate a tip line for celebrity sightings and insider gossip, which we use for our podcast and blog. We’ve heard from a source that they do not believe Roman and Clover are really dating. Can you confirm or deny?
- Team TroisToi
There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach. We’ve been so careful in public to create the illusion of being a couple. I read on to see Deacon’s response.
Janine.Obviously, you will deny it. I will deal with Roman. Perhaps we need a more organic approach. I will connect with you tomorrow.
- Deacon Everett, President & CEO, Starlight Studios
“I didn’t raise an illiterate son,” Deacon snaps. “Are you done yet?”
“Yes.”
“What do you have to say for yourself?”
“What the hell am I supposed to say? I haven’t been talking to anyone about it, I have no clue who the source could be.” I wrack my brain trying to think of anyone who could know or suspect anything on my end.
“You need to do better. Both of you.”
I don’t bother answering, knowing whatever I say won’t be the right response. If there’s a correct way to respond to Deacon, I’ve never found it.
“I thought you could at least handle this,” he laments. “This is disappointing, even for you.” The line goes dead.
Anger floods my system, and I fight the desire to toss my phone. Instead, I forcefully shut the lid of the piano. It was stupid of me to play tonight. I should have known better than to do the one thing that gives me the most joy. It feels like the universe is punishing me for playing.
The anger burns too hot, too bright, and I need to destroy something, my hands are vibrating with the insatiable urge. Before I have time to think better of it, I take the pen and scratch across all the music I’ve written tonight, and when that doesn’t feel final enough, I rip the page to pieces.
They flutter to the ground with a softness that is laughable. There goes all my hard work tonight. Ripped and torn on the ground. It doesn’t matter though, it was just asilly little song, as Deacon would say.
I’m fucking tired of never being enough. I’m tired of never being able to do anything right. Of the fact that I want to play music, and that I’m too chickenshit to go for it. I’m tired of being a goddamn Everett and all that comes along with it. It’s with a bone-crushing heaviness that I realize I’m tired of being myself in this moment.
Carrying the weight of defeat, I stalk into the office and open up my desk drawer and dig around for the box of cigarettes I know is in there, because honestly,fuck this.
