“What made you stop believing you could make it as a musician? Someone doesn’t become a guitarist as good as you unless they pour years into their craft. A hobbyist could never put in the time required. At some point, you must have wanted something more from music. What changed that?”
I lowered my plate onto the coffee table, casting my eyes down. I knew it was going to sound stupid when I said the words out loud.
“Growing up, all I ever wanted was to study music in college. From as young as around ten or eleven, my plan was to go to Julliard. I thought that once I got in, I’d meet like-minded people, master my craft, and figure out a way to make music my career.”
Silas was completely focused on me as I spoke.
“I sent in my application and got invited for the audition. I was so nervous that day. It felt like my whole life was at stake. This was it. I had my biggest dream within reach, but even before I started playing, I could feel something was off. The judges were sitting in a half circle around the room, their faces so serious, and all I could hear was my pulse in my ears. My anxiety shot through the roof. When I started to play, it was like I was holding an alien artifact rather than my guitar. I knew I was screwing up, but I couldn’t do anything to stop it. And so, a few weeks later, the rejection letter came, and that was the end of it.”
The crushing disappointment I felt that day was a clear memory. I’d revisited that memory often, a masochistic habit I couldn’t seem to shake.
“I fell into a deep depression for a few months and didn’t touch my guitar until much later. When I finally picked it up, I decided I never wanted to go through that kind of experience again, so I carefully set up boundaries around how I would engage with music going forward. And that’s what got me here.”
I lifted a beer bottle to my lips and met Silas’s eyes.
His brows were pinched together. “I’m not saying this to minimize your feelings,” he said after a while. “I know how badly rejection can sting, even when it becomes a distant memory. But have you ever considered that your childhood understanding of how you could succeed as a musician was a little limited?”
I tilted my head. “What do you mean?”
“Many, if not most, successful artists skip the whole arts-school thing. Why did you anchor so much to that?”
“Well, in my mind, that was the only sure way for people to take me seriously. A degree from Julliard would give me legitimacy.”
Silas shrugged. “An institution can’t make you a real artist, Ade. It’s what’s inside of you that counts. It’s your attitude, your skill, your worldview, and your faith in yourself… Your ability and willingness to take risks.”
I flinched at the last part, earning a nod from Silas. “There it is. You’re afraid of taking a risk.”
“The stuff that you’re so good at, right?
A corner of his lips ticked up. “I am good at that. It’s gotten me in a lot of trouble over the course of my life, but it’s also brought me a lot of joy. It gave me this band. It gave me you.”
My skin heated at his words.
“Maybe you’re right,” I admitted. “Maybe it was a mistake to put so much weight on getting into that school. But I did, and I can’t change the past or the effect it’s had on me.”
Silas shook his head, reaching for my hands across the table. “That’s where you’re wrong. It is never too late to change how you choose to respond to a setback. Your past doesn’t need to dictate your future. You’ve shown that to all of us over the past few weeks by agreeing to work on the record, and in the process, you made us realize that we still have a band even with Charlie gone.”
The hair on my arms stood up at his admission. “So you’re going to keep making music together?”
I watched his chest drop as he let out a heavy breath. “We’ll make a decision soon enough.”
* * *
I woke up in Silas’s bed. His chest was pressed against my back, its hard expanse making my insides coil before I had even opened my eyes. He made soft sounds as he slept, his breath caressing my neck.
I turned to face him, and he blinked open at the movement.
“Hi, beautiful.” His voice was laced with sleep.
I pulled my hand from under the sheet between us and brushed the hair away from his face. His arm snaked around my bare waist and pulled me closer.
The dark lines of his shoulder tattoo caught my attention, and I traced a path down his arm. Yesterday, I’d shared something with him that I didn’t talk about very often, so I met his eyes and finally asked the question that had been on my mind for weeks.
“Tell me about your tattoos.”
“Okay.” He gave me a soft kiss and pulled away to sit up on the bed.
The sheet pooled at his waist, revealing an impeccably sculpted torso that belonged on the cover of a magazine. I couldn’t resist dragging my nails down his pecs as I moved to straddle his thighs. He caught my hand and brought it to his mouth, a dangerous glint in his eyes.
