CHAPTER 36

“Have you talked to your dad?” Andie whispers from her spot next to me in the last row of pews. I shake my head. “And the deposit that usually comes to my account isn’t there.” Andie takes the Bible in the pew in front of her, fingering the pages. “That sucks.” We’re at the funeral of a man I don’t know—a banker, apparently, who loved fly fishing. No one seems particularly torn up he’s gone except for a woman we passed on the way in who said she was his granddaughter. I gave her the entire stash of tissues from my bag, and the guilt I felt for being here was washed out by the gratitude on her face. It’s been nearly a week since my dad showed up in New York and I told Timothy I needed space. Since then, we’ve rehearsed together three times at school, separately between that. I haven’t been to his place, and he hasn’t come to my room. He doesn’t try to pressure me when we’re together. I’m grateful. I know deep down I can’t blame Timothy for having a relationship with my dad, but I can’t go there right now—not with the showcase looming. It’s the biggest chance for both of us to grab what we’ve wanted for so long. “It’s fine,” I tell my friend. “I’ll get loans, and a job. I just wish everyone didn’t suddenly know who I am and whisper in the halls. I thought Rica and I were getting along, but I don’t know who else would’ve spread the word.” Andie huffs out a breath. “I asked him to take down the video.” I blink. “What video?” The service concludes, and I grab Andie’s sleeve, tug her after me down the row and out the door into the gray day. My friend pulls up her phone, and I see an entry on Jacob’s vlog captioned: “Eddie Carlton’s daughter crushing it,” accompanied by a video of me performing at Leo’s. “Are you kidding me?” I hit his contact on my phone. “What’s up, Manatee?” Jacob drawls. “You put me on your vlog?!” I can hear the confusion in his voice. “Come on. People spotted your pop at Vanier this week. It’s public knowledge now. Besides, I’m proud of you.” The backs of my eyes burn, but he continues. “What were you gonna do? Lie forever?” “Maybe.” I realize how dumb it sounds. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t think it’d be such a big deal. All we want in this place is to have someone notice us, and you have an excuse right there in your name and you don’t use it.” “That’s exactly why I don’t,” I insist. “Come on Jacob—would you want that? If your dad was your ticket to being noticed, but he still disapproved of you, would you want that to be the very thing that makes your dreams come true?” He turns it over. “No,” he says at last. “It wouldn’t be my dream anymore.” “Exactly.” The truth of it hangs between us for a moment before Jacob speaks again. “I’ll take it down.” “You know what? Don’t worry about it.” It’s too late to do much more damage, and some part of his words are right—I can’t hide who I am forever. I’m going to have to be this much more committed to being noticed on my own terms. “Listen,” Jacob starts again, “I don’t know what’s happening with you and Ty, but Zeke put our boy on ice.” That has me paying attention. “He promised Timothy a meeting after he slayed that show last week. But it was mysteriously canceled two days later and not rescheduled. Zero explanation.” Shit. Timothy never mentioned it. I’d never stopped to think about what my dad would do to Timothy. If my dad pulled his support or said something to Zeke to make him doubt Timothy… “The showcase will fix it,” I say, half to myself and half to Jacob. “He’ll crush it, and someone smarter than Zeke will recognize how talented he is and give him a chance.” “You think so, Manatee? They might be more interested in Eddie Carlton’s kid.” It’s the validation I wanted but for the wrong reasons, and the cost… I hate that it could cost Timothy his chance. I hang up and find Andie behind me, arms folded. I relay what Jacob told me. “So, your dad can say one word and Timothy’s shot is gone,” Andie comments. The unfairness of it has resolve hardening in my gut. “No,” I decide. “He can’t.” The morning of the showcase, I wake up to a text. Timothy: Hey, I was thinking about you last night. Not about you in my bed, though I swear I can still smell you on my pillows, and I hate the thought that it might fade before you’re back, but about how you look when we’re practicing. How strong you are. How much I believe in you. Whether today’s the start of something or the end, there’s no one I’d rather be up there with. I get out of bed and stumble to the bathroom. I take a hot shower and wash my hair, letting the heat scald every inch of me. It’s not until I’m halfway through drying my hair that I realize what I have to do. I send a text back to Timothy. Annie: I can’t do the showcase. My phone rings while I’m pulling on jeans. “What happened?” Timothy’s voice is full of disbelief and concern. I take a steadying breath. “With everything going on with my dad, I just can’t. I’m sorry, Timothy. You have to do our song yourself. You can sing it and play it. You know it inside out.” There’s a pause before he replies, “We need to talk about this.” “We don’t. You’ll do great.” “Emily—” I click off, squeezing the phone in my hand hard enough it leaves marks in my palm. The fall showcase is attended by a few thousand people. Each seat is filled by someone from industry, all of them eagerly anticipating the new crop of talent, hoping to discover the flame that will take their career to the next level. That afternoon, I stand at the back of the auditorium, out of sight, and watch the first half dozen performers. I’m the only one here, which is why I’m lingering by the back doors. Also, I can make a quick escape if I need to. “What are you doing here? I thought you were performing.” Avery’s incredulous voice has me sagging against the wall. She folds me in a hug while I explain. The disbelief and sorrow on her face are everything I’m feeling. “E, this was everything you wanted.” “I thought it was,” I admit. “But I couldn’t stand the thought of him not getting what he wanted when it was my fault. When I could help him.” As if he hears my thoughts, Timothy appears on stage. From the distance, I search his face and body for signs he’s lain awake this week as much as I have. I study his broad shoulders, his easy grace as he takes the microphone. Timothy scans the audience as if he’s looking for someone. My chest contracts more. I’m here. I’ve got you. When he plays, his fingers rest heavier than usual on the strings. Each chord reverberates through my soul. But when his low voice joins overtop, my heart stops altogether. In that moment, I realize a truth, one I hate as much as I love… Timothy’s not broken. He’s beautiful. There’s a crackling in the audience, a kinetic energy. Emotions chase each other through my chest. My fingers find the rose under the neckline of my shirt, and I squeeze it hard enough the edge bites into my palm. My prince is playing our song, and from the first words, it’s not our song anymore—it’s his. From the first chorus, he’s not mine anymore. He’s theirs. I don’t know if I envy him or the audience. Both, I think, everyone part of that experience I’m suddenly outside of. Tears sting the backs of my eyes. Something bumps my hip, and I glance over to see my friend. “Let’s get out of here for the weekend,” Avery murmurs. “You and me.” My chest thaws a few degrees. “I love you. But given my dad put a stop on next semester’s tuition, that’s probably not the best idea.” “Pssh. I went to Columbia like my parents wanted. I’m flush. You pick a place, anywhere you want.” She gives me another squeeze. “Think about it. I have to go pee.” I show her to the bathroom up one level, which is quiet even during performances. Everyone’s at the showcase, and the only sound up here comes from the open door of a rehearsal room. My feet carry me there, and I lean in. “Why aren’t you at the showcase?” I ask Frank. He glances up from the piano. “Why aren’t you at the showcase? Figured Eddie Carlton might come.” I step into the room and lean my elbows on the ebony wood. “So, you heard.” Frank lets out a low chuckle. “I don’t care what your name is. I’m thinking about the three shows I’m doing in LA in the next week. I need to get out of New York. It’s too cold, the weather and the people.” “Hey, Frank,” I say, feeling impulsive, and he cocks his head. “You made me an offer the night I sang with you to get me tickets to your shows in LA.” “Still stands.” “Thank you. But it’s not tickets I want.”