I turn that over. “You seem reasonably unscathed.”
Elle smiles, pointing to her face. “It’s the brows. You keep your eyebrow game on point, the world thinks you have your shit together.”
I huff out a breath as I stroke Flounder’s blue-and-yellow fur, thinking of Oakwood. “I’m not the best at making new friends.”
“Because you’re into voodoo too?”
I throw the fish at her head, and she catches it, laughing.
She looks between the stuffed fish and the goldfish bowl on the corner of my desk. “I’ve heard of a foot fetish. A fish fetish is new. I might have to use that.”
“That’s Heath.”
“Heath,” she echoes.
“Heathcliff. As in Wuthering Heights.” My chest warms a little as I watch him blow his introspective little bubbles. “He’s from my friend Pen. She’s at Columbia.”
“Ahh. So, you do have friends.”
I roll my eyes. “Some.”
“Well, I’ve got your back. Rae can do what she wants.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Thanks.”
My gaze settles on the trunk at the foot of Rae’s bed, which I’ve yet to see her open. “Is it wrong to want a hint of her damage?”
We look at the trunk, then each other.
Elle runs her hand over the surface of the trunk, landing on the lock at the front. “Until last night when you stripped off all your clothes to get on stage, I had you pegged as a good girl.”
“I was. I grew up.”
She lifts a brow. “Doesn’t that mean the end of childish ways?”
“No. It means accepting that we all do bad things for good reasons.”
6
New York produces the kind of cold that gets into your bones and won’t leave.
Today, New Yorkers brace against the fall wind with flipped collars on coats.
I’m one of them as I get my motorcycle from the tiny spot I sublet for cheap in a parking garage around the corner.
Then I head to a studio in Brooklyn to win my contract back.
“Zeke around?” I ask at the front desk.
“Not today,” the woman informs me with a half smile. “You’re in studio two.”
I brush off my disappointment as I head to the assigned studio. Inside, I shake hands with the band. As I get out my guitar and take a seat on the stool to tune it, the singer approaches me.
“We made some changes to the first track and added a couple new ones since we reached out to you.” He passes me his notes. “You need a minute to take a look?”
I scan the sheet. “No.”
“You sure?”
I calmly look at him, then play the section with the changes. “We can do it like that. Or—” I redo it with some flourishes that elevate it. “Like that.”
He claps a hand on my shoulder, grinning. “Let’s keep it simple.”
When I came to New York last summer and signed with Zeke, I had a chance to be the one calling the shots. I fucked it up.
Jax wanted me to walk away from Annie and from Dallas so I could do something great.
I tried to throw myself into it, but right when I thought I was done with my father, he played one last card that pulled me away from the city and from my new gig for two weeks.
By the time I got back to New York, I’d missed deadlines, messed with schedules, and generally had Zeke cursing out my name loudly enough to be heard in Jersey.
He put me out on my ass.
Getting into Vanier through a connection was grace in the highest sense.
The throng of students who were all like me—I’d never been around people who wanted so fucking much—grounded me. Piece by piece, I rebuilt myself and tried to put it behind me.
Beck helped, and so did my music.
Even though I’m not where I expected, I’m a better musician than I was last year.
But it wasn’t until a girl who looked like Annie Jamieson walked through the halls last April—of course it was her, but at the time, I swore I was hallucinating—that I pounded on Zeke’s door again, demanding he revisit our arrangement.
He “declined.” A nice way of saying “Fuck off.” I didn’t stop calling, and within weeks, I was offered my first session gig.
Today, we spend four hours running the tracks on the list. I do as I’m told, even lose myself in it once or twice.
Before I can leave, the producer calls me over. “Appreciate the help with this. I have another gig for you next week. You interested?”
Yes, I’m interested, but I want to say, This isn’t the work I pictured. I want more. I’m better than this.
“I’ll check my calendar,” I say at last.
After heading back to our place and making my way back to our building from the parking garage, I come across my roommate smoking a joint outside.
“Guy never came to fix the fridge,” he says tonelessly.
“I’ll call him. How was the audition?”
Beck holds out the joint, and I shake my head. “I’m not getting a callback. I was fucking De Niro in there,” he says with a wry grin. “But when I left, there were a dozen guys who looked exactly like me lining the hall. Stopped at the lobby vending machine for a Coke, and there was a guy who just had his change eaten who was shaking it. He even sounded like me. If that’s all there is to look forward to, what’re we even doing this for?”
As I take in his expression, I feel a pang of empathy.
Beck’s good at what he does, and it’s still an uphill climb every day just to get a chance at a dream.
If I was smart, I’d line up session jobs, string ‘em together to make for enough paydays, but it’s not enough.
The life I once told myself I wanted is within my grasp, but I’m restless. Maybe the thing Vanier’s helped me realize is that I want to create something that’s mine, that no one can take from me.
“It’s almost your birthday,” I remind him. “Twenty’ll be good, Beck. More auditions, more gigs, more pretty boys giving you pretty blowjobs.”
“Fuck it. I’m gonna curl up under the covers until someone notices I’m gone.”
“I’ll notice.”
He gives me side-eye. “Not once the fridge is fixed.”
I bark out a laugh, and he offers me the joint again. This time, I take it, but mostly for an excuse to stay with him.
“You heard from your parents since the party last weekend?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Nah. We always used to go to this restaurant for my birthday. Get a private room. Hell, last year I even started to think my parents were coming around to the acting thing. My mom beamed when I told her about my Shakespeare in the Park gig. My dad told me about this guy he replaced two valves on who was a big ex-producer from Hollywood.” His eyes glaze. “Between the entrée and dessert, the prettiest waiter showed me his cock in the bathroom. It was a good birthday, man.”
Something tells me that’s not happening this year. Beck’s always been a good friend, but with coming out to his family and his upcoming birthday and this bad audition news…
I need to up my roommate game.
Normally, I’m a hundred percent confident walking around Vanier. But sometime between my genius idea yesterday and this morning, I’ve realized this is a terrible idea.