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“I’m sorry.” I shifted to lie down, facing the wall. If I closed my eyes, I could pretend I could see him. The bright citrus orange, the rich malty rye. I would have given anything right then to reach over and touch him.
“I don’t think my brother really gets me,” Forrest went on. “He’s been taking care of me most of my life, and he knows my favorite candy and that if he puts ketchup anywhere near the table, I’m going to throw it across the room. But he doesn’t understand…” He trailed off. “It’s hard to explain.”
“I think I get it,” I told him. I ran my fingers over the bumps and grooves in the drywall, feeling a few bits of paint flake away. “Today, my sister asked me why I was still hurting over my breakup.” I passed a hand down my face. “I was riding this amazing high, then she calls, and when I told her I was still trying to heal, she just didn’t get it. She thinks that just because Nicolai was a bad person I can just switch off the last six years and move on.”
“Jules?”
I opened my eyes and stared at the wall. “Yes?”
“Why were you riding an amazing high?”
I rolled over and pushed my face into the pillow. It seemed so silly now, so ridiculous and small. It wasn’t like I was in. I wasn’t hired. I was just allowed to audition.
“Jules,” Forrest said a little louder.
I let out a groan and rolled back over. “The Brooklyn Symphony Orchestra is holding auditions. They’re losing a few members after the holidays. It’s so stupid to even be proud of this, but I called and got an interview with the director today, and he’s letting me audition.”
“Shut up.”
I blinked. “Um…”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes?”
There was a pause, then a hard thump that almost sounded like Forrest had thrown his body against the wall. “I am so fucking proud of you. Are you serious, Jules?”
Somehow, I began to smile again. Somehow, my heart began to hammer in my chest the way it had when I’d left the office. I got to my knees and pressed both hands to the wall, my head bowed. “I’m serious. I have an audition on Christmas Eve. They want me to prepare something I’ve written myself, and God knows I’m probably going to bomb that, but…”
“No,” he said, and there was a ferocity in his tone that almost scared me. “No. You listen to me, Julius. You’re not going to bomb it. There’s a fucking fire in you. You’re so fucking beautiful, and all you need to do is stand in front of the mirror and see it. Then you take that image, and you write it down, and you play like your life depends on it.”
I took in a shaking breath. “I’m terrified.”
“I know. I get it. I’ve been there, and no matter how many times I have to put myself out there, it scares the shit out of me. But if I can do it, so can you.”
There was a story there. I could hear it in his words, but I knew it wasn’t the time to ask. Whatever was going on, he was deflecting, and I would let him.
“Just promise me one thing,” I said, sinking down farther.
“Anything.”
Licking my lips, I let my forehead touch the wall and pretended that if I just pushed hard enough I could break through and land in his arms. “If I give it my all and whatever I write isn’t worth hearing, you’ll tell me. I just don’t think I could stand going up there in front of all those people only to be humiliated.”
“I swear I won’t let that happen,” he said without a second of hesitation. “But, sweetheart, trust me. I know you’ve got this.”
Chapter10
Iwasn’t sure if Forrest’s faith in me was displaced, but all the same, I allowed myself not only to hope but to try. I couldn’t help but notice that his playlist had changed. It wasn’t any of the classical greats, but it was different. Sometimes it was punk-band covers of modern hip-hop with an orchestra accompanying them. At one point, he played me Metallica done by the San Francisco Symphony.
Sometimes he played rich, soul-deep acoustic guitar with a man whose voice was so sad it made me ache as my hand scribbled page after page of notes.
Sometimes—in the rarer moments—there was just silence. His work tools were notably absent, but I knew that was a gift, and I wasn’t about to call him out on it.
All I could do to show my appreciation was create something worth hearing.
Most of what I wrote ended up in the trash, but as the days whittled down to a week before Christmas, then five days, then three, I had something. It terrified me to play it as a whole, to let someone judge whether or not the piece of my newly revived soul was worth something, but if I was going to take rejection, I’d rather it be from him.
“I think I’m done,” I said that night as I crawled into bed. It was nowhere near time for sleeping, but every atom in my body was exhausted.
