Maybe Once, Maybe Twice(38)

“Maggie,” I said, outstretching my hand.

“Amos.”

Amos shook my hand, then glanced at his watch. I nodded, completely fine with the personal disconnection. I wasn’t here for pleasantries, either. Maggie Vine was here to blow him away.

I sat cross-legged atop an oversized Moroccan pouf, loosening the strings on my guitar until my ears were dancing. I eyed Amos and Asher sitting across from me on a maroon couch, with Asher’s eyes refusing to leave my guitar. Amos flicked lint off his jeans, waiting for me to disappoint him—already bored. I sucked in a deep inhale from my diaphragm and took my eyes off the skeptical producer and set my attention on Asher.

A smile hit Asher’s cheeks, shooting a spark of adrenaline through my bones and sending my song “Up North” out of my whole body. The song started out dark, with lyrics that tasted like metal: A silver lining in a barren atmosphere. Then it dipped into something savory and hopeful—a lemon bar on my tongue, blinding rays of sunshine: Come bring your crown, I’ll wear a gown. I could relate to the main character, Yael. The wild spoke to her soul, and she couldn’t help but be pulled into a scary, gorgeous, scorching, florescent orbit. As the song turned golden, I tore my eyes off Asher to focus on Amos. Amos chewed on the edge of a plastic coffee stirrer, and while I had a hunch that this guy didn’t show his hand for a living, I sang louder and deeper, with eyes like gunmetal, until Amos’s expression finally widened upon my key change at the haunting bridge.

Holding on to you is like wishing upon a star I can’t see But hope’s always the last friend to leave So come keep me warm up north

I know, it’s a reverie

Fold your arm around my shoulder

We could be the real thing



I let the outro hang in the air until there was silence, and I realized Asher’s entire body was leaning forward, his lips twitching with a smile. He was so much like me—horrendous at hiding a beating heart. Unlike Amos, who stood up and nodded at me. I shot up quickly and slung my guitar around my back. My ego rebuilt itself every time I sang in front of an audience, giving me the spine to openly smirk at Amos, a smirk that let him know that I knew he fucking loved me.

Finally, a fleeting grin betrayed Amos’s face. “We’ll be in touch,” he said.

“Awesome,” I said, ever so coolly.

Asher and I walked toward the door in silence, entering the living room. We crossed the room, eyes flickering up at each other, both of us chewing on big smiles. I hesitated, then pressed the elevator button, even though all of me wanted to take a seat on the sunken linen couch and never leave.

Asher stepped forward, amber eyes taking in mine.

“Can I talk now?” he said, grinning.

I lifted my chin and crossed my arms. “I’ll allow it.”

He stared at me like he was about to recite Shakespeare.

“Your name should be in lights.”

I pressed my hand to my reddening cheek with a grin. Funny enough, I rarely suffered from imposter syndrome. When things went well, I knew I was exactly where I needed to be at the exact right time. But things hadn’t gone well in a very long time, and his effusive tone wrapped my beaten ego in a gold-leaf bandage.

“Thank you,” I finally said, daring to match his soft smile.

“Why haven’t you made it?” His tone was casual, as if the answer should be just as simple.

I choked on a laugh.

“Why haven’t I made it…?”

My tongue searched the corners of my gums for the words. There was too much to say, and while he was the guy I historically said everything to, right now, silence was easier. So, I shook my head. Without tearing his eyes off me, Asher stepped forward, catching the now-closing elevator doors. I hadn’t even heard them open. He pressed his back against the elevator door, keeping it ajar. His eyes followed mine, to the delicate tattoo of a crescent moon on the underside of his hard biceps.

“It’s still my only one,” he said quietly.

I set my finger on my rib cage. “Same.”

He studied my fingers on my stomach, and his eyes stayed there for a moment longer than they should have, until coming back up to me.

His spine was holding the elevator door open for me, and I eyed the gap in the doorway, wondering how to physically sneak past him with my guitar without invading his personal space. There was likely a way to get in the elevator without my body pressed against his, but that would be criminal. I took two steps forward. His eyes were hardened on mine as I lifted my chin up to his face, as my arm swept against his torso. I hesitated for a moment, lost in the way his face seemed to be moving closer to mine, then I exhaled and stepped inside the elevator. I spun around and set my back against the elevator wall. He stood tall, sizzling eyes on me, and suddenly, he took a step forward, pressing one finger on the Door OPEN button with his other hand right next to my face. His lips were just inches from mine.

“Maggie Vine, I could listen to you sing every day until I die,” he whispered, real low.

Asher pressed his hand against the wall, pushing himself out of the elevator bank, with eyes that refused to leave mine as the doors shut between us.

It took me five whole minutes to remember how to use my legs.





21

THIRTY-FIVE




IF YOU’RE VULNERABLE ENOUGH TO put your heart on the line for an audience, nothing screams louder than the silence that follows. The moment before the applause. The moment before you get a yes or a no. The moment when someone studies your work—the art you bled for—and decides if spilling your guts was worth it. Most of us are born with an instinct to safeguard against failure and rejection—to put ourselves in positions to win. We don’t run headfirst into situations that will likely break our hearts. Artists do the opposite, every day. We tear down our own walls to dig into the center of our glittery souls and fashion something that’s uniquely ours—something that no one else can create. We present a slice of our humanity to the world, and nine times out of ten, the world tells us it isn’t for them.