Sometimes, when the anger is too much, I hum to the rhythm of the strikes. A habit from before I even knew what songwriting meant. A pulse I can control when nothing else makes sense.
Maggie leans against her cue stick, studying me. “What do you mean you don’t take lessons anymore?”
I don’t want to answer. Their eyes are too gentle. Too knowing. I can feel the cracks forming in the walls I’ve spent yearsbuilding. The ones I’ve patched with silence and smiles and just-enough-distance. My spine stiffens. I cross my arms and brace myself.
“I got busy,” I say, voice flat.
A lie. A tired, useless lie that burns in my throat the second it leaves my mouth.
She steps closer, lowering her voice. “What’s the real reason?”
I look away, picking at the frayed hem of my jean jacket. The threads pull too easily, just as the seams in my life do. Loose. Thin. One tug from unraveling. “Dad couldn’t afford it anymore.”
The second the words leave my mouth, shame creeps in. I hate how small I sound. As if I’m a kid making excuses. As if I’m still defending a man who hasn’t earned it.
Maggie stiffens as her expression shifts. Something between frustration and understanding, the kind of look that says she knows more than I do. The kind of look I used to mistake for pity. Now it just makes my chest hurt.
“James and I paid for your lessons,” she murmurs, but her voice cuts with the sharpness of a blade. “But one day, your dad told us we didn’t need to anymore. That he could take over.”
My heart stutters. The breath leaves my lungs in one sharp exhale, as if someone just punched me in the gut.
He lied.
He let me believe we couldn’t afford it. Let me think I was too much. A burden. That I had to grow up faster, take the hit, move on. As always. And the worst part? I did and didn’t even argue. I packed up my gi, hung up my belt, and acted as though it didn’t matter.
But it did. It mattered.
All these years, I thought I gave it up because we didn’t have a choice.
Turns out, it wasn’t about money. It was about him.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I look down at my hands, curling into fists without meaning to. I remember what it felt to land a perfect roundhouse, to move with confidence and control. That was mine. And he took it. For what? Pride? Ego? Guilt?
I tap my thumb twice against the table edge. A beat. A habit. The rhythm of holding it together. Hold steady. Don’t let it bleed out here.
Movement catches my eye, and there he is—my father—shuffling toward the meeting room. He looks older than I remember. Grayer. Slower. There’s no beer in his hand, no slurring in his step. But he’s ragged, hollow-eyed. A man made of paper and ghosts.
Still, the anger rises, bitter as bile in my throat.
He lied to them. He lied to me.
And I’m still here. Still trying. Still hoping he’ll look at me the way he used to, as if I matter.
He disappears inside, and I bite down hard, swallowing the lump clawing its way up my throat. My jaw aches from holding everything in and my shoulders lock. My teeth press until the tension grinds into the base of my skull.
Maggie doesn’t say anything else. She must see the war happening inside me because she backs off.
I drift toward the far end of the bar, needing distance. Space. Something that doesn’t smell of leather and broken promises. I pass the jukebox. The static hum of the neon lights. The sharp tang of grease and wood polish. All of it clings to my skin, soaked in memory.
The urge to walk out, to be done with this whole damn thing, pulses with the steady rhythm of a drumbeat under my skin.
Three slow breaths. I mouth the silent line I always do before things spiral.I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.
That’s my lyric. My lie.
I tell myself I’m fine.
That I can hold it together.
