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“So you think this Mindy Fox could help you with your music?”
“I don’t think she’s working right now.” I’m not sure what she’s doing, but I haven’t seen or heard anything about her since the story on her and Blake hit. I’ve seen plenty of news about Blake Bonham, though, and his wife’s pregnancy and his upcoming album.
“Why not?”
“It’s complicated. The short version is she became romantically involved with a musician she worked with.”
He shrugs. “That’s not so bad.”
“He’s married.”
He chuffs. “So she’s a homewrecker?”
“I don’t think so.” I had the chance to observe Blake with Mindy, months ago, before the story became public fodder. He touched her like she was his. I shrug the memories away. “Blake is still with his wife. There’s more to the story than what the press is sharing, I’m sure. Besides, he is the one who broke a promise to someone. Mindy isn’t married.”
“Touché. I’ll give you that point.” He shifts in his seat, reaching for the bottle of water at his side and taking a sip. “So you think maybe if you send this Piper girl some songs, she’ll share it with her sister, and then if this Mindy gets a job again, she’ll call you?”
I grimace. “It’s a long shot.”
“It’s longer than a long shot. But it’s what you got.” He rubs his hands together. “Which one are you gonna send her?”
“Should I send more than one?”
He shrugs. “I think it will only take one.”
The one song I’ve played for him. “The one about Kevin.”
He nods.
I look up at the ceiling, focusing on the old water stain in the far corner. “That’s the hardest one to share.”
He rests one heavy hand on my shoulder. “Which is why it’s the best.”
I tilt my head to meet his eyes. “I’m going to have to go home next month.”
“I understand.”
I can’t keep doing this. I’m out of options, and money. Why I ever thought this would work in the first place is beyond me. I think my brain was burned out after med school and residency and working in an ER.
I told my parents and Granny Bea that I’d try for a year. One year to give it my all, and now the time’s almost up. If I could get over my stage fright, I might be able to get some low-paying gigs at bars or make money busking and stay longer, but I can’t. I’ve tried.
I push myself to stand. “Dinner later?”
“Only if you let me cook since you brought me lunch.” He raises the sandwich he’s halfway through eating.
“Fine. But it better be low sodium.” I grab my guitar and head toward my room.
He chuckles. “You’re worse than a mother hen.”
“You know it,” I call out before unlocking my door and disappearing into my closet-sized room.
I rest the guitar against the wall and grab my laptop from under the bed.
I open the file with all my audio recordings and a blank email and drag Kevin’s song over. Then I key in the address Piper gave me and type out a quick note.
After a slight hesitation, I add my phone number under the signature. You never know, but my expectations are tempered by recent experience.
I’ve had my hopes up so many times, and every time they’ve been smashed into oblivion. This is my final Hail Mary. It’s almost relieving in a way, knowing that this is all almost over. I gave it my best as I promised, and now I can go home and . . . I don’t know. Figure out what to do with my life.
