Page 41 of Serenade Me

“Oh.”

“But, I thought I had it under control, I had a doctor prescribe me a sedative and that’s helped in the past. I took one earlier but, I guess... I dunno, I guess it didn’t work. I’m… I’m really sorry, Marius. I’m so sorry.” I look down at my hands. I’ve fucked up everything. And now he’s here to tell me he was right about me joining the tour all along.

“No, no, no. Don’t worry about it. I didn’t ask you to make you feel bad. I asked you because… well, I know how it feels.”

I look up at him to see if he’s making fun of me, but his eyes are kind and soft.

“You do?”

“Fuck, yes. It’s why… it’s why I started meditating in the first place. And trust me I had it worse than you.”

“That doesn’t seem possible.” But I can’t help feeling better for hearing it.

“Have you projectile vomited then passed out in said vomit?”

“Um, NO.” Okay, that IS bad.

“Then yes, I had it much worse than you.”

“Wow. I… I didn’t always have it. It’s just, er, well, just something that developed over the last few years. I almost didn’t even graduate because of it. Whoever heard of a Music Performance major who couldn’t perform?” Someone who was trained to fear it, that’s who. I go cold at the memories teetering on my brain. Go away.

“Well, that’s understandable.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, yeah, you were performing because you had to. To graduate. Not just for fun, or for pleasure, right?”

Yes. “I guess.”

“And let me guess, you graduated top of your class.”

I blink before answering. “Maybe.”

“That takes a lot of pressure. And well, sometimes you’re not really sure if you’re playing what you want to, or what they want you to. When and where does feeling like a sell out or performing side show act start?”

I don’t say anything, I’m wondering how it is he can understand me so well. Not everything, but the part that matters.

“Anyway, I know what it’s like, that intense pressure. And being told to perform on cue,” he shrugs, like he’s made peace with it all though.

“Except you’re good at it. What am I going to do if I can’t perform? What kind of musician does that make me?”

“Firstly, did you not just hear the projectile vomit story? Secondly, you don’t have to perform in front of crowds to be a musician. Hey. Don’t scoff, look at me,” he waggles a finger at my sneering face.

“Um, I am looking at you.”

“Sorry, I was caught up in my speech, and they always say that in movies when they’re trying to make a point.”

I can’t help but giggle and look down at my hands, they’re red from wringing each other.

“Hey,” Marius says, this time his voice is so gentle it makes my heart soften a little, “no, really, look at me.” He lifts my chin with his finger, and I feel a little tingle where our skin meets. “If you never played another note again in your life, you’d still be a musician. But being a musician doesn’t define you, Anca. You’re also a sister and a friend and a smoking hot potty- mouthed witch,” he finishes with a smile. “But come on, this stage fright you’re experiencing is so not a big thing. I will help you.” He sits up straight and grins at me. “Trust me, in this case, it takes someone who understands the problem.”

“And you would do that for me?”

“I’d do anything for smoking hot, potty-mouthed witches.”

Why? I wonder, but am too scared to ask. So I just say, “Thank you.”

He shakes his head, “Don’t thank me…”