“It’s different,” I say. “With you.”
“Maybe so, but you’re not a songwriter because of me. That was in you the day we met. All I did was nurture the instincts you already had.”
“Instincts, but no direction. Thanks to you, I now have goals, dreams, plans.”
“What goals?” he asks. “What dreams, what plans?”
He’s asking because back then, I had none of the above, and it rightfully concerned him.
I settle a hip against the bathroom counter. Liam does the same, arms crossed. “My dad spent most of his life at that warehouse job he hated. And Maren, my only other parent-like figure, was so focused on pulling herself into a different socioeconomic class that I’m not sure she ever paused to ask herself if she evenlikescorporate law. Then you’ve got my other three sisters, who do whatever makes them happy. I’m not saying their happy-go-lucky strategy doesn’t come with its own set of consequences, but I’m willing to balance the risks if I get to earn money doing what I love. There isn’t an agenda beyond that. I’m not looking for fame, or a record deal, or even a spot in a band. I only want the freedom and financial stability to write. Maybe someday, I’ll have goals of working with certain artists or producers or studios, but for now, I’m just thankful for the chance to prove myself.”
His lips twitch. “Damn. I did rub off on you.”
“Hence the intense lyrics,” I say.
Eventually he sighs, eyes softening. “You’re making it feel like you forgive me.”
I stiffen. “I don’t remember an apology.”
His hands go out to his sides, palms up. “You’re not the only one who’s stubborn.”
“I’mtryingto make it feel like you can trust my intentions,” I clarify.
“I forgot to add that I also don’t trustmyintentions,” he replies. “I’m scared I might really hurt you, even though I told you I wouldn’t do it on purpose.”
Meaning:we still haven’t talked about it, no apology, no forgiveness, and until we do, there’s hurt yet to come.The fluttering in my belly migrates to queasiness. Instead of anticipation, all I feel is dread tangled up with a self-preserving need to drag this good part out as long as I possibly can. Not for the sake of the music, but to protect my heart.
I’m fighting against my own human instincts, and it’s exhausting.
For what?my left brain whispers.Why fight your instincts? That’s what they’re there for.
Because you can’t not make songs,my right brain argues back.You also havethatinstinct. You feel wrong when you stop. You feel right when you start again.
“At least bring your guitar with you,” Liam says, stepping out of the bathroom. “We’re going to have some downtime before the band and crew arrive.”
After I change and grab my things, we take a crowded elevator down to his car and drive in thoughtful silence. As we pull up to the Spokane Pavilion—a grassy outdoor venue with an architecturally magnificent open-air roof—I try to re-ground myself.
Liam turns to me after he parks. “Part of my job is scouting the path to get load-in started. I’ll have to walk around and get the lay of the land, meet with the venue’s event coordinator, but you can come in with me and sit wherever you want.”
I jump out of the car, grab my guitar. “The event coordinator won’t mind if I have this?”
Liam shakes his head, smiling loosely, before stealing the handle from me and heading in the direction of the front doors.
“Why are you smiling?” I ask, trailing after him.
“No reason.”
“Tell me.”
He slants me a wry look. “It’s just that I didn’t expect you to actually bring it.”
My steps falter. “Should I not have?”
“No, I’m glad you did. But the Paige I used to know only played music in the privacy of her apartment. She certainly wouldn’t have been caught holding a guitar in public, let aloneplayingone. Writing music was always your secret thing, and now…”
“Not so secret,” I conclude.
Liam nods.
