Chapter 1
“Whydidn’tyousignup to play tonight?”
I take a sip of my iced coffee, glancing at Tyler before letting my gaze drift around the room. “What, and steal the spotlight from all thesechumps?”
The Hidden Note is far cozier than any place I used to hang out back home. Dim amber lighting pours from exposed bulbs, shining over the plush booths that wrap along the walls. Tiny round tables are scattered through the center like they were placed there on a whim, but Tyler swears it’s intentional. The rough hewn wooden accents and worn-in decor give it a speakeasy vibe, more hidden lounge than coffee shop.
Charlotte is brand new to me, and I’m still getting my bearings. Before moving here last week, I’d only visited twice, so everything is daunting. My dad offered to rent me an apartment off campus so I could have my own space. “Get to know the town,” he said, but I turned him down.
Being the rich kid is something I’m glad to leave in Atlanta.
I’d rather bunk up in the dorms and get woken up by a snoring roommate than have a fancy downtown apartment, because it means I get to fit in. I get a clean slate, and an opportunity to start fresh as who I am, instead of who I’m seen as behind my family’s money.
Tyler is my assigned roommate for the year, and we hit it off immediately. He’s laid back and funny, and while he’s a little messier than I’m used to, we formed an immediate friendship. He grew up in Charlotte, so he’s made it his mission to show me around.
I’m double majoring in business and music—one for my father, and one for myself. Tyler latched on to the second, and insisted that open mic night at The Hidden Note was non-negotiable. According to him, it’s a rite of passage for anyone serious about music in this town, though I can’t say I’m entirely convinced yet.
The first few performers have been underwhelming at best. They’ve been either painfully off-key or so low-energy that the room barely responds. If the coffee weren’t so good, I might have already talked myself into leaving.
“Think you’re better than him?” Tyler asks, nodding toward the stage. The guy up there is a few years older than us, and the acoustic guitar around his shoulders looks one tuning away from falling apart completely.
“Can’t be sure,” I say before taking another sip. “I haven’t heard—” He strums the opening chord, and the low E string plunks out sour and flat. I wince, raising my voice just enough to carry over the noise. “Okay, yep, never mind. I’m definitely better than him.”
“Thought you didn’t play the guitar?” Tyler teases.
“I don’t,” I respond with a grin. “Still better than him, though.”
The guy on stage starts singing, but it’s nothing groundbreaking, so I lean back into our conversation. We ease into talking about the year ahead, and our nerves around starting college. It’s scary, but also freeing. Everything about this move feels like a reset button I so desperately need.
It’s a new city, with new faces and things to do, but most importantly, it’s the chance to be myself without my parents hovering in the background. Ever since I came out to them last year, there’s been an extra layer of tension at home. Our household has never been warm or inviting, but after that revelation, the strain has been undeniable.
It isn’t that I think they’re upset about me being gay. That would mean my dad actually paid enough attention to form an opinion one way or the other. Unless it involves trophies, grades, or something he can brag about at the club, he rarely notices me at all. What bothers them more is that, as their only child, I might be the end of the family name. It would be the ultimate disappointment to someone like my dad who believes legacy is the only thing in this world worth having.
The guy on stage finally wraps up his set to a polite smattering of applause, and I glance around the room, already plotting my escape route toward the door. Justas I’m leaning over with a fresh excuse on my tongue, a sharp squeal of feedback cuts through the speakers.
My attention moves back to the stage, expecting to find the same fumbling performer adjusting his gear, but a new face stands there.
“Sorry,” he says into the mic, his voice booming a little too loudly through the intimate space. He cringes, then lets his mouth slip into a sheepish grin as he dials back his volume. “I, uh, it’s my first time.” Thick, wavy blond hair catches the spotlight as he runs his hand through it, pushing the rogue strands from his forehead. I settle deeper into my seat without really meaning to, curiosity overriding my earlier urge to bolt.
Surrounded by abstract art and a crowd dressed in moody blacks and deep maroons, he stands out like he accidentally wandered in from a different world. He looks like someone who spends more time on a field or gym than hunched over sheet music. His powder-blue polo shirt stretches over broad shoulders and sits neatly tucked into jeans that hug his solid legs. The whole vibe feels like it belongs at a fraternity rush rather than open mic night.
He’scute, but he’s clearly out of his depth here.
There’s a long pause as he drags a worn wooden stool over to the center of the stage. He sits down carefully, resting a well-loved acoustic guitar acrossone thigh, then flashes another endearingly awkward smile at the crowd. When he absentmindedly strums a chord to test the setup, I’m relieved that the instrument is perfectly in tune. There’s one more soft squeal of feedback as he nudges the mic stand closer, then he leans in close enough that the light catches the flush on his cheeks.
“This is an original song,” he says, his voice steadier now, but still carrying that nervous edge. “I’ve never played it for anyone except my parents and, uh, the chickens.” Quiet chuckles roll through the crowd, breaking the tension just enough. He flashes another quick, self-deprecating grin. “I hope you like it.”
“Do you know him?” I ask Tyler.
“No, never seen him before,” Tyler replies, tilting his head. “Looks a little lost up there, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah, he does,” I agree, but before I can add anything else, the opening chords ring into the space in a heavier beat than I was expecting. The guy leans into the microphone, and the voice that pours out of him catches me completely off guard.
I had braced myself for a thick twang or a lazy southern drawl—something that would match the frat-boy posture—but what comes through is deep and perfectly pitched. It carries a smokiness that belongs to someone who’s lived far longer than the not-yet-twenty face suggests. A low growl threadsthrough every note, giving his voice a gritty edge that sends goosebumps racing across my arms and the back of my neck.
He has my full attention now.
I lean forward in my seat as the song unfolds, really listening for the first time all night. The lyrics are heavier than anything the previous performers offered, framed by a melancholy that settles over the room like fog. He might look like a walking ray of sunshine, but he sings like he’s carrying a lifetime of shadows inside him.
