It was sweet that he’d let me know. I barely wrote a response before Brad had given me notes on some things we still needed to work on.
Me: Thanks for letting me know. You’ll be missing out on eggs Benedict.
He only answered with a crying and heartbroken emoji.
It’s Monday now, and I haven’t seen him since Friday. It’s odd how two people can live in the same place and rarely see each other. Levi and I have polar-opposite schedules. He’s teaching when I’m at home, or he leaves early on the one day I happen to be leaving late. We keep each other updated like any regular roommates would, except with some flirting here and there. He sent me a “break a leg” text earlier. Simple and to the point, like a friend would, except we made it crystal clear that we couldn’t go back to beingjustfriends. Correction, he said we wereneverjust friends, which makes this so confusing.
The truth is, I’m scared and exhausted. What happened between us was big for me, and the fact that we aren’t together makes it even more confusing.
“Stephanie Winters and Brad Miller,” a woman calls out from the auditorium door. My heart drops to the pit of my stomach.
Brad takes my hand. “You’ve got this, Stevie. The hard work will pay off. You’ve. Got. This.” As we both stand, he gives me anod. His confident look allows me to take in a deep breath, and I return the nod as we march into the auditorium.
Almost everything is the same as it was in the auditions. The same judges and stage, except now there are drummers, violinists, a pianist, and even cellos.
They went all out.
I’m not the first performer of the day. I heard some auditions from outside, but I guess not everyone is using all the instruments at once. Every person who auditioned was offered a list of instruments they needed for their song, hence all the ones available onstage.
For some reason, Brad said yes to the violinists, the drummer, and the pianist when I read him the email. I decided to go with the flow and allowed him to write them back, knowing it would sound better with the extra instruments. But being up here now, it doesn’t feel intimate like the song we wrote is supposed to be.
Once I step in front of the mic, I announce myself, the part I’m auditioning for, and the title of my original song.
Brad begins strumming the first chords as the drums start, counting down until I join in. Closing my eyes, I allow the sound of the instruments to flow through me, and I belt out the first notes. I go from belting to using my head voice, and when the chorus hits, the drummer takes off, making my eyes pop open. This time, I smile, glancing back at the player who’s focused on the song but looks like he’s having a great time. Then the violins and piano join in, and holy shit, people are playing a song that I cowrote. The thought alone gives me more confidence as we go into the bridge and Brad plays the tiniest of solos before I belt the highest note, and the drummer goes halftime.
Every time I sing, it feels different. Each song is different. This one, although meaningful, is fun. After days of practicing, I’m having fun, and that’s a major part of the character’spersonality. The lyrics tell my story—the heartbreak and the healing. After the bridge that took me weeks to write ends, one more chorus passes, and I lighten my voice with the final verse while the drummer stops abruptly, the violins drift off, the pianist finishes, and Brad plays the last strings.
Looking back, I find Brad smiling and nodding, a reassuring sign that everything went perfectly. My shoulders slump in relief.
“Thank you, Stevie. We’ll be contacting everyone during spring break,” one of the producers says, and I may or may not be hallucinating, because I believe one of the directors is smiling.
“Thank you,” I say quickly and run off the stage with Brad on my tail.
We reach the lobby, and I turn to him, both of us silent. Next thing I know, I’m giggling like a schoolgirl, jumping, and clapping because, whether or not I get the part, people played a songIwrote.
Brad picks me up by the waist. “That was fucking awesome. You killed it!”
“Me?” He sets me down. “You looked like a damn rock star up there.”
He laughs. “Hey, that could’ve scored you some points, right?”
Nodding, I don’t correct him because, yes, Brad is charming and has a way with people.
“Seriously, Brad, thank you.”
As I pat his shoulder, he looks at my hand, then back at my face. “Go on a date with me.”
My hand stills, and I feel the color drain from my face. “W-what?”
Brad takes my hand and clears his throat. “Let me phrase that a little better.”This can’t be happening.“Would you like to go on a date with me?”
My mouth can’t seem to form any words, it feels like I’m short-circuiting. He looks at me with his big brown eyes, pure patience and hope lining them. A swirl of indecisive feelings pounds through me.
Levi and I sixty-nined last week, he confessed that he wanted me, kind of, sort of. Did he admit that? He wants me sexually and likes me in that way, but he still hasn’t told me whether he has feelings for me.
We aren’t exclusive. In fact, right now, I don’t know what we are.
So, what’s stopping me?
