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Amber
Lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling, I squeeze my eyes when Gina’s words from yesterday spin in my head.
“It’s not that nobody wants to sign you,” she had murmured, before her face turned pitiful, “it’s just that they want a different sound from you. It needs to be...edgier, sexier.” She raised a thinly plucked brow, taking a sip of her martini, adding, “Darker.”
We’d been sitting in an open roof bar, crowded with people and I’d nearly burst out into tears, right in front of everyone. I didn’t know what she meant, I still don’t know what it means.
My music is uplifting, serene, the kind that comes from a girl who used to be a cheerleader in high school, always wears her hair in curled ringlets and thinks that loose, buttoned up cardigans are high fashion.
I’m not edgy. I’m not sexy. I’m definitely not dark.
Maybe I should just call Gina and tell her to give up on me. Nobody will ever sign me and I’ll only prove my parents right when they said, that the musical gene was lost on me.
Everyone in my family is a musical genius, my mom, my dad. My older sister who’s a famous pianist, living in London. My older brother who’s violin play can even make the dead shed a tear.
And then there’s me. The cellist. The one who obviously should have chosen a different career path.
Ripping the covers off in frustration, I jump out of bed, telling myself to stop sulking. I need to plaster a smile on my face, pretend that I’m happy because my new roommate is coming today.
For being a close to starving artist, I know I’m living well beyond my means. I live on a nice street, a little outside of the city center in Chicago.
My house is both elegant and cute, painted in a faded white with a navy roof and my neighbors are a bunch of doctors and lawyers. Gina used to live with me before but she recently got married and moved out.
For a while there, I thought I’d be forced to move out too but then I decided to take my chances and put up an ad on a website for roommates. I specified that I wanted it to be a girl, but the only girl who responded seemed crazy.
Luckily there was this guy who sent me a private message. He seemed a lot less crazy. Friendly and we hit it off. I don’t know much about him, but he told me he’s coming down to Chicago because he’s a mason and is transferring to a new company here.
He seems reliable, he’s already paid the rent one month in advance, so I doubt there will be any problems with him.
Walking into my bathroom, I turn on the light and sigh at my appearance. My eyes are red from crying myself to sleep previous night and my hair looks like a birds nest.
Hopefully my look won’t freak out my roommate and I brush my teeth and wash my face, before putting on a dress that looks similar to a bathing suit if it weren’t for the flaring skirt.
I’ve already set up his bedroom, the one that’s just down the hallway right next to mine and when I told Gina about this, she give me a snide side eye.
“You’re going to have a man, a stranger, live in your house and sleep just a couple of feet away from you.” She’d shaken her head. “Are you sure about this? What if he turns out to be a psycho?”
I had laughed because Gina is suspicious of every guy that’s not her husband or her family member. Obviously, I’m not like that. And I would never want to be. I prefer seeing the good in people.
Even if I sometimes have problems with seeing the good in myself.
Down in the kitchen I have my usual breakfast, consisting of frozen berries and milk and ice coffee. I read through the morning newspaper as I eat, the actual printed one because I’m the kind of person who likes the tactile stuff.
I like to brush my fingers over different kinds of textures, the same way that I like to brush my fingers over my instrument. Chewing, I throw a glance at the cello that’s in the corner of the living room and my stomach drops at the sight of it.
There’s a concert next weekend, one that might get me signed if I’m extra, extra lucky but I doubt it. Usually I practice almost every minute of the day before a concert, but now I just don’t feel like it. My inspiration is gone.
At least for now.
I’m busy cleaning up after myself when the doorbell rings and I freeze, looking up. So soon? He was supposed to come in the late afternoon, not this early. Why is he here so early?
There’s still some things left to do in the house, dirty laundry in the bathroom and I haven’t made space in the closet for outerwear in the hallway.
When the doorbell rings again, I brush my wet hands off a towel and jog towards the door.
“Be right there,” I call, my brows rising curiously at the tall shadow standing outside. “Sorry that I kept you waiting...” My voice dies at the sight of my new roommate and a nervous trickle cuts through my lower belly.
