“I want more.”
Butterflies raged in my stomach, the song I felt was the most personal coming to mind. I wanted the audition over and I knew instinctively that this was the song that would end it. It wasn’t just the lyrics, it was the melody. I’d never once written a song and not questioned how great it was. There was always something about it that I wanted to perfect. But not this song. This song came from somewhere so deep inside me, it was me. The acoustic version was exactly how I wanted it to be, and I even knew how I wanted every aspect of it to sound with a band. I’d finished writing it only a few nights ago when my existence as one of the invisible had still felt like my only option.
Maybe I should have sung another, one of the songs I hadn’t quite finished. But O’Dea wanted to know what kind of artist I was right now, and this was me. Fucked-up, little old me.
“This one’s called ‘In the Wind’ . . .”
“No, I didn’t understand then
That your soul was part of mine and
When yours faded out
Mine broke down to dust.
“Oh, it blew into the wind and
I can’t find all the pieces
That used to be me—"
“I can’t,” I broke off, my voice cracking with emotion that embarrassed me. I covered my face with my good hand, flinching as my fingers touched the painful mess of my eye. Hiding from him, I tried to control my breathing, hating that he got to see me like this.
There was utter silence in the small apartment.
Then O’Dea cleared his throat and I heard the chair protest under his movement. “You need rest.”
Astonished at his soft words, I removed my hand from my face and stared up at him now standing as if to leave.
He stared at the floor, seeming unable to meet my gaze.
“I need my guitar,” I whispered.
O’Dea’s dark gaze flew to mine and I saw the puzzlement there.
“My mom gave it to me,” I reiterated.
Understanding dawned on his face. Everyone knew what happened to my mom.
“You need rest,” he repeated, proving that he could feel empathy after all. “Take today to get yourself together. Sleep, rest. Whatever. I put some fresh soup in the fridge so all you have to do is heat it up. There’s also plenty of water in there. Your painkillers are in the cupboard. I’ve left you what you need for tonight. I’ll bring the rest with me tomorrow.”
I scowled. “You don’t trust me with painkillers?” At his silence, I huffed. “Nurse Goddamned Ratched. You know what, screw your apparent ability to not be a patronizing pain in my ass. You just fuck it up by reverting to instinct. So let’s just do this.” I indicated the seat he’d stood up from. “I want this over with.”
And before he could reply, I started singing again.
“No, I didn’t understand then
That your soul was part of mine and
When yours faded out
Mine broke down to dust.”
Memories flooded me as I stared unseeing out the window, the lyrics, the music in my head, the feelings becoming everything until I forgot where I was and who I was with. I wasn’t singing to O’Dea. I was singing to her.
“Oh, it blew into the wind and
I can’t find all the pieces
That used to be me,
They’re lost in a sea.
“So I wander all alone now,
Numb in my remoteness,
Content to be
Lost in this sea.
“Just a whisper on a wave,
A lost ship that can’t be saved.
And it’s all that I deserve.
“Ah, ah, ah.
“Oh, I wish that I had told you
All the truths locked inside me,
Instead of cutting you out
Like a knife through our lives.
“So afraid that I would fail you
With these years that I’d lied through,
And now it’s too late
To tell you I’m sorry.
“I can hear your voice in my head.
Absolution that was never said.
Fingers sifting through wind,
Trying to pluck out the dust.
“It catches in the light,
Familiar fragments full of fight,
But they’re always out of reach.
“Ah, ah, ah.
“No, I didn’t understand then
That your soul was part of mine and
When yours faded out
Mine broke down to dust.
“It catches in the light,
Familiar fragments full of fight,
But they’re always out of reach.
“Ah, ah, ah.”
When I finished, O’Dea was sitting on the chair, his elbows braced on his knees. He was staring at the floor, like he was lost in thought. Then he looked up at me and my breath caught at the million heartbreaking emotions roiling in his gaze.
And then they were gone, as if they’d never been there.
“That’s all I have so far,” I whispered, so confused by him. “No more songs.”
His expression was unreadable. “Your visitor’s visa is about to run out.”
Bewildered by the response, I could only nod.
“You’ve no money.”
I tensed.
“You’ve run away from your identity, from your life in the band, in the US. You’ve no family to speak of, and you abandoned your friends.”
The man was the soul of sensitivity. “Your point?”
“My point is that you don’t have many options. I think you were living in some naive fantasy that you could keep running from your problems and live a relatively peaceful life as a homeless person. Somehow, miraculously, you survived unscathed for five months. But last night you were given a giant fucking look at the reality and dangers of homelessness. I wish it hadn’t happened that way, but there was never any other way it was going to end. And it has ended, am I right?”
“So, do you get, like, a bonus at the end of every day if you say a hundred patronizing things in a twenty-four-hour period or something?”
He ignored me. “You can’t go back to sleeping rough.”
“I think I got that, thanks.” I waved my cast at him.
“So . . . it’s either call your old manager, your band—”
“Not an option,” I snapped.
O’Dea smirked. “Then I’m all you’ve got. And I’m no fucking Mother Teresa. I’m in the business of making money, Miss Finch. You’ve already proven you’re good at making it. And from what I heard today and have heard you playing when you busk, I think the world hasn’t even seen a fraction of what you can do.”
There was really nothing to do but glare and hope that he withered under it.
“I’ll let you stay here in this flat free of charge, give you a weekly stipend for clothes, groceries, a new guitar. You can heal up here. But all of it in exchange for a record contract. A one-album deal, that’s all I ask. When you’re healed up, you’ll be straight into the studio to record.”
The thought made my stomach pitch. “I don’t want to be famous again.”
“Tough shit. There is no being famous again. You are famous. And you’ve got more talent in your pinkie finger than most do in their entire being. And that talent deserves more of a platform than standing on a street busking. It’s a goddamned insult to all those people out there trying to make the big time. I don’t care what it is you’re running from. I care that you sort yourself out and make some music again. Music that matters. Music that will heal you.”
I bristled. “I’ve made music that matters. I’ve got the fan mail to prove it.”
“Your music in Tellurian did its job. It was catchy, appealing, and teenagers related. But your voice is meant for something else. The songs you just sang to me . . . those are songs that will really make people feel. It’s vulnerable and brutally honest and that’s the stuff that resonates with people. People want songs that make them feel good, but they also just want songs that me them feel, even if it breaks their fucking heart. You’ve been through a lot, Skylar. Even if I couldn’t read a newspaper, I’d know that by listening to those songs you sang.
“Two years ago, you were a leader on social media and the lead singer of a pop-rock band that teens and college freshman loved. I’m not asking you to go back to that. I’m asking you to become an artist in your own right. If you don’t want the social media exposure, we’ll have someone else run that stuff for you. And we’ll do what we can to minimize the tabloid exposure. It will be hard at first considering your disappearance, but once it dies down, we can make it so you’re not hounded. It is possible.”