“Leave. Right now.”
The mother says nothing, just stares at me with tightly drawn lips and wide, glossy eyes. I glance between them. I see their pain, feel it as if it were my own.
There’s nothing more I can say.
I send them a dejected nod, reach for my crutches, and haul myself out the door.
But I’ll make this right. Someday.
When my guitar business takes off. When the money starts rolling in. When the full debt has been paid and they stop hating me.
Or maybe when I stop hating myself.
Whichever comes first.
Chapter 7Annalise
Three Months Later
The mid-April breeze catches my hair as I approach the entrance to the café, Kenna right behind me. I flatten the skirt of my lavender top-waist swing dress, then fiddle with the multistrand gold necklaces draped around my neck.
Kenna takes a final drag from her iridescent rainbow vape pen, blowing out a cloud of something fruity, before hiding it away in her purse. “I live for Thursday nights, you know. Coffee and bangers with my bestie. So wholesome.”
I yank open the main door, and we shuffle inside. “It’s definitely my favorite night.”
Tag is setting up on the small, one-person platform, a microphone situated in front of him as his guitar case lies sprawled open near his feet. A proud smile blooms on my face.
“Damn. Your brother looks positively giddy up there.” Kenna moves to the counter to order her usual cinnamon cortado.
I peer across the room at Tag again—no smile, no twinkle in his eyes. Giddy is not the adjective I’d choose. He’s the poster child for brooding musician.
“It’s a shame my vocal contributions didn’t work out,” she continues, swiping her card through the reader. “We could’ve made a good team.”
“I love you, but your singing voice is akin to a dying giraffe.”
Kenna frowns. “Do giraffes make noise?”
“Probably when they’re dying.”
Nodding, she discards the receipt and moves aside so I can place my order. A few wayward strings pluck from the front of the café as my brother drops to the stool, doing a quick tuning.
“How come you don’t sing with him?” Kenna asks.
I glance at my best friend while ordering a vanilla latte with no foam. “You know I hardly have time for these outings, let alone vocal practice. I just sing for fun.”
“You’re so good at it. If I had your voice, I’d have a Spotify profile, a YouTube channel, and a website with merch, a mailing list, and a fan club up and running.”
My brain shuts down at the mere thought. “At least I’ll know who to hire if anything changes.”
She takes a big sip of her coffee, wincing when it burns her tongue. “I feel like you’re wasting your potential at the restaurant. Respectfully.”
“You work there too.”
“That’s because I’m only good at two things: shmoozing the late-seventies retirees with a penchant for competitive bird-watching, and rocking those cute retro aprons.” She pauses, taking another hesitant sip. “I can also throw tennis balls with my toes. They’re prehensile. But I don’t foresee any beneficial uses for that.”
“I can tie a cherry stem with my tongue.” I collect my coffee, and we saunter through the café, looking for an empty table. “One hundred percent success rate.”
“There are many beneficial uses for that.”
