Maybe Once, Maybe Twice(39)

Asher Reyes historically had a way of filling the silence with noise—of making rejection seem impossible. He’d squashed the tiniest hint of doubt a week ago when I was leaving his loft, but now, in the silence that followed, rejection seemed inevitable. I hadn’t heard from Asher in six whole days. Not one fucking word.

I paced in my apartment, hands on my phone, his email address beaming in front of me. There was a fine line between desperation and assertiveness, and since my career was in his hands, I was afraid to cross the line. I plopped down on my bed, my insides twisting with the probability: their answer was a no. Asher was likely trying to come up with the perfect way to let me down, because Asher was the kind of person who would take the long way home if it meant avoiding a pothole. So often we count vulnerability as a prize, but I wondered how many more scars I could take before I decided to stitch up my wounds for good and leave music safe inside the center of my soul, where it could never hurt me again. I had tried doing so four years prior, but that decision sucked the life out of me.

I huffed off the bed and tugged a short black strappy dress on over my body, then slipped on my black Converses. I inhaled deeply with my eyes clenched shut, opening them into the mirror of my apartment, shaking off the probable bad news. Now wasn’t the time to play in the Worst-Case Scenario mud, not when I needed to sing to my largest audience in five years. Tonight, I was playing at the Bowery Electric. And while I’d done a lot of work over the last few years to get my body ready for this moment, my palms were sticky and sweaty just thinking about it.

The Bowery Electric was a historically important stage for indie artists and was a nominal step above the other venues I played. Like, three or four steps above. It was also a triggering place for me, the place where I was sort of discovered five years prior. Their main room held two hundred people standing, which would be my largest crowd in these last five years.

Five years ago, I was supposed to play the Bowery Electric, but I pulled out at the last second, drowning in a panic attack thirty minutes before stage time. The panic seemed to swirl in the back of my throat—the memory sitting atop my shoulders like a dumbbell. I inhaled deeply, clenching my fists, reminding myself that I had gotten to a place where I believed I could look into a large crowd and not search for his face.

I walked toward the window to grab my guitar, just as the sinking orange sun cast a shadow over my dad’s old hard case. The case leaned against the wall, with faded stickers covering every inch of his Gibson’s home. I ran my fingers over the curled edges of each sticker, as if I was memorizing the shape of someone’s face while she took her final breath. I LOVE NEW YORK, Stevie Nicks, John Lennon’s “Imagine” illustration, acid house smiley face, Boston Celtics, the Village Voice—each sticker was a reminder of his youth, his hopes, his what-ifs—a reminder that he never got those answers. I felt the weight of Making It settle atop my shoulders, while a staggering monster put down roots inside the walls of my chest, twisting all the way through me, past the soles of my bare feet, until I was frozen in place, anchored to the hardwood floor.

My father’s unfinished dream was my burden. It was wrapped around my bones, standing on my shoulders, prickling my eyes. My dad never made it as a musician—not the way he wanted to. He had immense talent, but once he hit the age where he could starve to go all-in on his dream, he had another mouth to feed. My parents split up when I was one, he became a music teacher to help pay child support, he stopped playing night gigs with his band, and he refused to go all-in on anything, including his role as a father. Even to this day, a part of me felt like I held my dad back from becoming who he was supposed to be. I wanted so badly to make it for the both of us. I wanted to be the phoenix rising out of the ashes of his unrealized dreams. I was terrified of another possibility: What if I was just a little girl covered in her father’s ashes?

My body jolted from its heavy roots, thanks to the vibration between my fingers. I looked down at my phone, seeing that Summer had texted me four times.


Meet you at the side of the stage.


Answer your phone!


Why aren’t you standing in front of me right now?


Get your ass over here, or I’ll come drag you out of your apartment by your hair.



I looked out the window, studying the musty afterglow. The dark violet night shined on my face, and I grabbed my father’s guitar case, letting my legs pull my body out the door.



* * *



I CHECKED MY PHONE ONCE before I stepped onstage. I could hear the crowd grow louder behind the curtain, and a swirl of nerves and bravery fought inside my chest. I closed my eyes on the image of Asher’s smile as he watched me sing six days ago.

Fuck it.

I brought my phone up to my face and furiously typed an email.

So, when are you going to tell me I got the gig?



I pressed send before my subconscious could catch up to my fingers. Before I had time to regret it, my name was on the loudspeaker, followed by scattered cheers behind the curtain.

Seconds later, I walked onto the stage with a sizable crowd below me. The blue spotlight hit different than I had imagined it would when I got the booking notification a month ago. It didn’t feel like the start of something, it felt like a Hail Mary into the end zone. I grabbed the cold mic and my eyes found Summer, who was cheering too loudly.

I stared down at my guitar, letting the spotlight hit it, just right, the way it deserved. The first song would be about my father. After his funeral, I didn’t know how to direct my anger and my unsaid words at a dead man. So I wrote him a song.