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“What the hell is your problem?” I asked, feeling a fire burning in my chest. It had been a long time since anyone had managed to get under my skin, yet there Hazel was, clawing her way into my irritations.
“My problem is that you are talented enough to get out of this town but you’re too stubborn to reach deeper. I would kill to have the gift of music that you do. Your vocals are amazing, and you’re seconds away from your breakthrough, but you’re too afraid to push for it.”
I didn’t want to listen to her anymore, because she was annoying and judgmental and fucking right.
I turned on the soles of my shoes and headed toward the front door. As I opened the screen, Hazel called after me. I didn’t turn to face her, but I did pause for her words.
“You can’t write the truth if you’re lying to yourself.”
She was right, and I knew it, but I’d been lying to myself for a majority of my life. Over time the lies almost seemed real.
7
HAZEL
Ian and I’d gone a few days staying out of one another’s way. Ever since I’d told him about his lyrics, he’d been doing his best to avoid me like the plague. I couldn’t blame him—I hadn’t been the nicest about it. But I’d listened to enough people blowing smoke up Ian’s butt after his performance that I’d figured he could use some tough love. It had been clear he wasn’t feeling fully confident about his performance, either, based on his pacing.
On Tuesday evening, he came to my room, cranky as ever, and stood in my doorway. “So you’re telling me you’re able to write lyrics like that because you’re in touch with your damn feelings?”
I nodded. “Yes, exactly.”
“And you think I can’t because I’m closed off?”
“Yes, exactly.”
His eyes were narrowed, and a crease ran across his nose as he stood there in deep thought. He scratched the back of his neck and murmured something under his breath before looking at me once more. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Yes, well, it’s also true.”
He didn’t like that reply, so he continued to ignore me.
It wasn’t until late the following Friday that Ian peeked into my bedroom. “Hey, are you awake?”
He seemed much calmer than before. His eyes not as harsh and distant.
“Oh yes, Ian. I am such a loser that I would go to bed at nine on a Friday night,” I responded sarcastically. Even though I was definitely about to go to bed at nine at night.
He flipped me off in response to my sarcastic tone. I flipped him off in return. We were clearly becoming best friends.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Nothing. I was supposed to rehearse with the band, but Eric came down with the flu or a cold, or he was going out of town or something.”
“We need you to work on your communication skills.”
“You’re probably right. Anyway, I was going to invite another friend over if that’s okay ...?” He sounded timid, embarrassed even.
“You’re asking me if you can have a friend over?” I laughed. “You do know this is your house, right? And wasn’t one of the ground rules that I wasn’t allowed to judge you for your manwhore ways?”
He ran his hands through his hair and bit the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I know, but well, it’s your place right now, too, and I don’t want to, like ... I just want you to feel comfortable.”
“Ian ...” I looked down at my attire, which was footie pajamas. “I’m wearing a onesie. I’ve never been more comfortable in my life, and if you are really asking if it’s okay for you to bring a woman back and have sexual intercourse with her, then yes. Balls to the wall, best friend.”
He cringed. “Do you know how awkward you are?”
“I am fully aware.”
“We have to work on your communication skills,” he mocked. “Okay, well, have a good night. If you need anything”—he paused—“don’t need anything tonight, okay?”
