“Because I care.” He stared at me. “Caring always makes things complicated.”
I wanted to protest, then remembered the very reason why he sat in front of me now—and why I’d tried to keep it a secret for so long.
“I care about the guys. About not letting them down. About who we are when we’re together,” Jake continued. “Me having less time to meet up with them already caused problems. You saw that.”
“I did. But you also care about music. Yourownmusic that tells your own story. You’ve been writing songs ever since I can remember. Isn’t releasing your own album something you’ve always wanted?”
“It is,” he said instinctively. “I want to take the offer, but I also don’t want the problems that might come with it. Like, what’ll it do to US?”
“But you don’t have to leave the band, right? Having a solo side project just means you can work on music in addition to what you do with US.”
“Yeah, but the guys were right. I was spending less time in band meetings. I skipped out on hangouts. Maybe it made me less of a friend. The more time I took for the idea, the less time I had to give to them. Even if my album charted high and was asuccess, it wouldn’t mean anything at all if I lost everything with US. The band’s myhome, Lucy. Just like the café’s yours. I love it. It’s not something I want to risk.”
I fell quiet, hearing my own fears echo in his. “Yeah, I get that.”
Jake’s gaze went down to the well-worn musician’s calluses on his fingertips, then over at his guitar. “Sometimes, the things we love eat away at us.” I thought about the loss of my final “free” summer. The scholarship I was still uncertain about. The worry that constantly came in waves as I tried to keep it from reaching Mom. Jake looked up at me. “Doesn’t mean we love them any less.”
That was true.
And yet . . .
“It doesn’t make us want more any less either. It’s not selfish to want something just for yourself, Jake. Writing songs is what led you to meeting the guys in the first place. It’s what made the band get a big hit.” Mom’s words from our conversation on the couch came back to me. “You shouldn’t have to lose one just to keep the other. Wanting to do more with songwriting doesn’t mean you want the band any less.”
“Try telling that to them.”
“But have you? Actually told them?” I questioned. “I don’t mean just showing up late and telling them you were working on a song and expecting them to understand everything it means to you. Not everyone automatically puts so much weight on a song like you do, Jake. I mean actually explain how important it is to you, and the fact that you’re not abandoning them. You supporting them means trying to make it to those meetings anyway despite being busy. And them supporting you means accepting you’re a bit late.”
There was still a way to make things work. A way without Jake having to give up his dream either. Just thethoughtof Jake not pursuing what he was so passionate about and had worked so hard for felt wrong, filling me with indignation that toed the line between sadness and fury.
Wait, was this how Mom felt when I talked to her about giving up my scholarship?
I’d been so stuck inside my head, I hadn’t quite understood her words before—not completely. But as I stood here with Jake, I suddenly started to be able to see myself too, like I was outside looking in.
The photograph Leon found of Jake and me flashed through my mind, the one with Jake gripping the mic and little Luciana with her plastic stethoscope.
We both deserved to go after our dreams to the fullest extent possible.
“You’re thinking of your home and of what youmightlose,” I heard myself say, repeating Mom’s exact words, both for Jake and for myself. “But maybe you should also think of yourself, and everything youwilllose if you don’t take this opportunity.”
I had to take that scholarship.
Iwouldtake that scholarship.
I just hoped the future looked good—for Jakeandfor me.
Jake gave me a knowing look. “I feel like you just discovered something about yourself there, Miss Future Veterinarian.”
I laughed, but I wasn’t done yet. I wanted Jake to feel the same newfound resolve that I was feeling too.
“You said it yourself, Jake. The band’s your home. If they love you, they’ll understand. And writing your own songs is somethingyoulove. Something you’ve loved for a very long time.You’re not yourself if you’re not living in a song. Songwriting’s your passion.”
It was true. If I collected all the times I’d caught him humming self-made refrains and writing down bridges out of the blue, there’d be enough sheet music to pave a path from here to LA.Twice.
“Neither one of us would be true to who we are if we didn’t go after what made us passionate.”
Jake studied me with an intense look in his eyes and his head cocked to the side—an expression usually reserved for when a new song came on the radio, and he became captivated with something that struck him in the melody or verse.
After a moment, he laughed lightly.
