“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.
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.