To stop pretending I can split myself cleanly between the agency and this place and expect them both to thrive.Maybe I need to make a real decision.To finally admit that the thing I’ve been quietly aching to do—the idea that comes rushing in every time I walk out of a showcase or sit with a raw demo at two in the morning—is to start my own production company.
Not just support the artists with their lyrics or play the piano while they’re recording.But produce everything from scratch.
Except that means risking something.It means walking away from the store that raised me.That saved me.That reminded me of who I was when everything else was falling apart.It means stepping outside my bubble, the bubble I’ve carefully constructed out of vinyl bins, handwritten labels, and comfort.
I’ve been too scared to move.Not just hesitant, not merely cautious—but scared.Scared in a way that digs deep, that settles in my bones and keeps me orbiting the familiar.I’ve been the safe space, the neutral zone, the reliable background music for everyone else’s spotlight moment.And maybe I convinced myself that was enough.Being the one who keeps it all running was noble, and supporting other people’s dreams was just as fulfilling as chasing my own.
Perhaps it’s time I try.Time to stop doing just what’s safe.Though I’m definitely not doing a whole coffee shop.That’s so out of my comfort zone, and also not something I would like to venture into.
I’m about to say something when Cleo’s phone rings.
“Cleo Wilder speaking,” she says, clipped and polished.Then her face tilts, her brow arches just slightly.“Oh.It’s you.Hey.”
Thatheycomes a bit too soft, too melty.
“I wasn’t expecting you to call.”The tone is a bit flirty.
She then listens and nods, but the nod doesn’t match the tension that gathers at the corner of her mouth.She shakes her head slowly, then glares at me with a look that doesn’t carry anger, but I definitely did something.
Now I’m intrigued about this call.
“But is he going to be okay?”she asks, her voice softer now, hesitant.Like she’s preparing herself for the answer and already bracing for the ways she won’t be able to fix it.
Then comes the sigh.Not just loud but exaggerated—theatrical in the way only Cleo can be without losing sincerity.She rolls her eyes like she’s trying to shake something loose in her brain.“Yes, I trust you.Thank you for ...yeah, sure.Whenever.”
That last bit is so casual it hurts.As if she didn’t just spend the entire call hoping he’d say he’ll reach out again soon.As if she’s not clutching that hope like it’s the last clean shirt in a pile of regrets.
She ends the call and pockets the phone like it hasn’t stirred something deep in her.But I know her too well to let it pass.
“Everything okay?”I ask, already preparing myself for whatever she’s about to unravel.
Her mouth tightens, her eyes narrow, and she gives me a look that sits somewhere between hurt and confusion, like I’ve broken a rule she didn’t realize she needed to spell out.
“Listen,” she continues, trying to steady herself, “I love you.And I know what Rod did was pretty fucked up, I do.But seeing you could trigger him.You need to stop it.”
I don’t know where this is coming from.It’s like we’re suddenly retaking the conversation from last Thursday, so I say, “He triggered me.”I don’t hide the bite in my voice.“What was I supposed to say?‘Hey, your brother wants to work with my father again?’What was I supposed to do with that, Cleo?”
I turned him down, and that was that.
“You should’ve told me,” she argues, crossing her arms as if trying to hold herself together.“You should’ve said something.But that wasn’t the only time you saw him, was it?”
“No.”The word drops out before I can stop it, before I can soften it.“He came last Thursday to the store.”
Her face twists.“I was here on Thursday.”
“He came after you left with Barret.”I meet her gaze and don’t blink.“You make it sound like I’m inviting him over.Like I’m leaving breadcrumbs on the floor for him to follow.This isn’t some slow-burn reunion fantasy.We don’t talk about him for a reason, and I figured you already knew he’s the last person I want walking through that door—or into my life.Like, ever.”
Cleo’s expression shifts—guilt, again.But this time, it’s not directed at me.She closes her eyes for a second, pressing her fingers against her temple like she’s trying to quiet all the versions of this conversation she’s already had in her head.
“Sorry,” she says, and the word sounds like it’s been chewed on.“I’m being unfair to you.”
I shrug, but there’s no indifference in the gesture.“I get it.He’s your brother, and you’re afraid you’re going to lose him—this time for good.”I point at her phone.“But whatever he told you—I didn’t do it.”
She shakes her head.“Oh, that wasn’t him.It was Eddie.”
I blink.“Eddie?”
“Yeah, he’s helping Rod with his recovery.Therapy, mental check-ins ...sponsors.The whole thing.He said Rod’s fine, mostly.But he thinks he’s slightly fucked up from seeing you.”
