“Don’t tell me what I’m doing.” He points without looking. “You don’t even make art anymore.”
“Excuse me?”
“What are you even doing here?” He gestures at everything. “Why sit in a studio when you could be doing anything else? You used to be a designer.”
“Iama designer.”
“You used to be good.”
My jaw clenches without a thought. “You mean when I used my skills to build your site, your rollout, your merch, your singles, your everything? When you depended on me and listened to my advice?”
He opens and closes his mouth. “That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what you said.”
“It’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
The ficus droops. The clock ticks like it wants to be elsewhere. Vegas keeps the bones and swaps the skin. New towers where old signs used to blink. Same heat. Same casinos that smell like air freshener and regret.
I can’t imagine staying here one minute longer than I have to. Especially not with him. “This is what you do. You push until I absorb it. Then you say I heard you wrong.”
He huffs at that. “I’m under pressure.”
“So is everyone.”
“Not like this. No one knows what it’s like to be me.”
“Right.” I roll my eyes. “No one has ever written a song before you.”
“You’re not listening,” he says, breath fast as he starts to pace. “I need to get this before people forget my name.”
“People forget their own names every day. You’re not special because you’re spiraling.”
He barks a laugh, sharp. “Right. I forgot. You do fonts. You wouldn’t understand real creative work.”
I stand. “You didn’t say that when I built your brand from nothing.”
He squares up to me. “I was never nothing. I had the name.”
“I gave it shape. I gave it something people could link to you.”
“You gave me alogo. Congratulations.”
The heat in my face is controlled. I plop back down because I choose to. I don’t have much fight left in me for this conversation. “You asked me to be here, Troy. I am here. You want quiet, ask me. You want me gone, ask me.”
He stares, chest moving like he just ran stairs. He reaches for the laptop, opens a fresh session, names itUntitled Again, hesitates, renames itStart Over.
Which is probably what we should do.
He sings a verse under his breath. It could work. He stops and deletes it. “Nothing,” he barks.
“It’s not a crime to be stuck.”
“You can say that because no one cares what you do.”
“Go to hell.” But I say it without bite. I just… I’m not even sure I care about his insults anymore.
He’s looking for a fight because he’s got nothing else. He stares at his hands. His nails are bitten down. The tattoo on his wrist disappears under his sleeve when he flexes. “You make everything sound simple.”
