“Yes. Closed mouths don’t get booked. Or paid.”
Her enthusiasm buoys my spirits. By the time we hang up, I’m armed with a game plan and a sliver of optimism. Sure, the next few days are gonna be a grind, but I’ve faced worse.
By the time I crawl into bed, I feel better.
I can do this.
I’ll busk my little heart out, make rent, pay some bills and keep chasing my dream. It’s what Mom would have wanted.
Honestly, it’s what I want too.
five
The Next Evening
Keepingitonehundred,something has to change.
I sit at my parents’ table on Bainbridge, dragging my fork through a piece of lasagna I’d usually demolish. The kind of meal I often brag about to coworkers. Tonight it sits there, half-eaten, cooling.
Mom notices.
“You’re picking.” She taps the napkin next to my plate.
“It’s delicious, but I don’t have much of an appetite.” I drag my fork through the wide noodles and rich sauce.
Dad watches me over the rim of his glass. He doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, gives me space to talk myself into sharing my troubles.
Doesn’t take long. “I went out last night. To a nightclub.”
“You did?” Mom lifts a brow. “Voluntarily?”
A corner of my mouth twitches. “Yeah.”
“Where?” Dad suppresses a smile.
“The Mission.”
Mom leans back. “Not your usual scene.”
“No,” I admit. “It’s not.”
Silence settles as I cut into the lasagna again, a smaller bite this time.
“So…there’s a girl,” I add.
Dad nods once. I can see something clicks into place. “Alright.”
“Tell me.” Mom sets her fork down.
“She’s a busker at Pike Place.” I sigh. “Plays guitar. Sings like an angel.”
“And?” Mom tilts her head.
“I started going to see her on my lunch break every day.” I drag my fork through the sauce, buying a second. “Just to watch her perform.”
Mom’s expression shifts, softer now.
“Every day?” Dad asks.
