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His expression softens some, and he nods.
Our gazes meld against one another’s, and all I find is a deep well of sympathy—understanding—almost as if he gets it. Really gets it. And I suppose in a way he does….
After all, he’s surrounded by talented musicians. A language he could never quite grasp enough to speak. One he never had the patience or passion to learn.
“Comparing yourself to them does you no favors,” he tells me.
“I know.”
He searches my gaze. “Just because it takes you longer, doesn’t mean you’re any less talented. Or that you don’t have as much, or even more, potential.”
I huff a humorless laugh and tilt my head. “Sure feels like I’ve run it into the ground these days.” Staring at his black, gray, and red-checkered comforter, I pick at a loose thread, twirling the thin red string around and around my finger.
“You’ve hit a rut. It happens. There are times I go weeks without drawing, feeling like I might never draw again.”
My finger stills, and I lift my head. “Really?”
“Yeah. It sucks. A lot. But…it always comes back.”
I frown.
He shakes out his arms and looks around, like he’s trying to find the words. “People are always talking about finding inspiration—chasing a so-called muse. Like….like Izzy’s always looking for the next challenge to tackle.”
“Same with Waylon,” I murmur. Or when he’s just trying to make a point.
Jeremy nods. “Exactly.” His gaze meets mine. “It’s different for us.”
“How?”
“It’s not….out there.” He makes a vague gesture behind me. “It’s inside us. The thing that keeps pushing us to create.”
The thread unravels from my finger, and my chest expands at his words, the truth of them settling over me, soothing a ragged piece deep inside me I never really gave much attention, out of fear I would just…lose it if I did.
“We need breaks, and that’s okay. But it’s not going anywhere. It’s like…like a well. You know what I mean, right? When you hit that sort of…drop, and you just…fall and fall and fall…” He shrugs, cheeks ruddy as he drops his gaze. “It’s endless. I have to believe that,” he whispers.
I stare at the top of his head, his words replaying in my head.
“I know it’s a little different, seeing as you’re, um, not exactly creating, but?—”
“I want to.”
His gaze shoots up.
“I want to write my own music.”
His lip curves up. “Of course you do.” He shakes his head. “Maybe…maybe the point is to not perfect someone else’s art, but to…learn, so you can create your own.”
Nodding, I say, “It’s a tool.”
He grins, and I find myself grinning back. “Yeah, Mase. It’s just a tool. The music is in you, not the other way around.”
My smile falters, his words seeming to echo as my heart gives a mighty thump against my ribs, as if to say, Hey!
“You know,” he goes on, not seeming to notice how off-kilter I suddenly feel—hot, vulnerable, completely ripped open at his words—“when I was a kid, I kind of hated music. Resented it, all of it.”
I frown.
“Unlike you, I didn’t have any patience whatsoever to try and get better. I just…it was embarrassing, because Izzy picked it up so fast. Even when she tried guitar, and was…horrible…she just…laughed.” He lifts a shoulder. “But that’s my sister for you. Well, when it’s not a competition, of course. Then stay clear.”
