“You told me years ago that you don’t play any instruments.”
“That was quite a while ago.” I hope he doesn’t remember the rest of that conversation we had right after I was hired.
He didn’t like the idea of me being around, but he didn’t really get a say in it. He asked me tersely if I played, and I said I didn’t. It was true at the time. Then he asked me if I was a fan of Wilder’s Peril. I knew what he was really asking. He was asking why I was truly there and what motivated me to take the job. I may have received the message about ulterior motives, and Imighthave said something along the lines of Wilder’s Peril not being the sort of band I enjoyed listening to. I didn’t lie. I wasn’t a fan before I took the job. A job was a job, and it was a great opportunity, and that was the sole reason I applied. I never thought I’d get hired.
I was between jobs. I’d worked privately for a family, taking the night shift for years. They were the sweetest old couple with the nicest kids. Only one daughter lived close enough to help when her dad was diagnosed with dementia, and when itprogressed, they needed to hire private help. I worked the job until Mr. Gregor passed. I was still pretty heartbroken when I came across this posting. I wasn’t even going to apply.
Now look at me.
Hopelessly in unrequited love.
His face is giving me a whole lot ofI definitely remember how the rest of that conversation went, and I like you more for it.
“I learned how to play,” I explain, my face flushing. I can play, but not the way Matt or Wilder can. “I taught myself with a few of those apps.”
“When?”
“When you weren’t touring. At home. When I wasn’t on the road with the band, I needed to be on call at all times for you, so it was not like I could go out and take another job. I volunteered a lot, mostly at animal shelters, and hung out with my mom, our cats, and the dog. I also gardened, did other hobby stuff, and learned to play guitar.”
“And wrote me a whole notebook of songs.”
My face is like tea that’s left to brew for too long. Like hibiscus tea. Always delicious, but if steeped overnight for cold brew, it goes from pretty pink to bright red. That’s me. A mortifying shade of tea that’s ready for the addition of lemonade for the perfect drink.
“I didn’t… I wasn’t writing themforyou. It only became clear later that you were meant to have them.” That’s partly true, if you count the play of words on the wordsfor you. I never meant for the notebook to see the light of day.
“They should be heard,” he murmurs. His finger whispers down the page, tracing my writing again.
My stomach does something I’ve never felt it do before. It’s part crap, part butterflies, part sick feeling.
“Would you play one for me?” he asks.
I leap up and start pacing the small area by the bed. “No. Never.”
“You should put them online.”
I’m not sure what “No. Never”means to Wilder if he thinks I would ever do that. I’m not shy, and I’m not going to say they’re not good. It’s not that I can’t play or sing. It’s that I don’t want to. The thought of putting my face on the internet is what literally just about gets me going straight into a gagfest.
“Ha. No. Seriously no.” I put up my hand and make a fist, but then uncurl it and give him a finger. No, notthatfinger. My index finger. “That’s my one condition. That you never tell anyone who wrote these if you do use them. Or even if you don’t.”
He frowns, looks down at the journal and back up at me, then down and back up. “Do you hate your voice?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Are you shy about playing in front of people?”
“I’ve only ever played anything for my mom, but I was fine then.”
“You don’t want your songs to be consumed? To have your gift given away for the masses to devour and constantly demand more, more, more?”
Wilder really struggled with that concept in the past, but not me. “I wouldn’t mind if people heard them. If you want to sing them, record them, and put them out there, you’re welcome to do that.”
His frown deepens. At least he’s not thinking about the IV as it slowly drips steadily downwards, giving him the hydration I hope will have him back on his feet by tomorrow. He’s trying to process this and sort it out.
“It’s a fame thing,” I say. And he does get it. Though maybe not fully, because most peoplewantit. They want recognition. They want the accolades. They want the money, the lifestyle.The assurance that your name won’t be forgotten after you’re no longer here.
“I’dlike to hear you play.”
The head shaking gets more vigorous, but so do the waves in my stomach. “Also no.”
