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“Now, just take a few deep breaths,” Granny Bea tells me. “You have nothing to be concerned about.”
I have everything to be concerned about.
Calling Granny Bea is an attempt to distract myself, but so far she has only decreased my anxiety by about five percent.
“Talk to me about something else. Anything else.” I pace back and forth in the living room in front of the couch.
“Over Thanksgiving, I’m counting on you to make sure I don’t drink too much and insult your father.”
My lips quirk. “Gran, you haven’t had a drink since last century.”
“Doesn’t mean I won’t start up again. If anyone can drive me to it, it’s your parents.”
“Are you sure it wouldn’t be me driving you to it? And all my bad decisions?”
Granny Bea didn’t so much as blink when I gave up my job as a highly paid ER physician and moved to New York City to be a penniless songwriter. My parents thought I had lost my mind.
Maybe I did.
She huffs. “No. You’re young. Stupidity is expected. Following your dreams is anything but stupid. Once you reach middle age, there can be no more excuses. Your parents put more emphasis on having bragging rights than on your happiness.”
A light knock halts my steps mid-pace.
My heart flips and lodges itself in my throat. “I have to go. Mindy’s here,” I manage to croak. She’s five minutes early. We are supposed to start at .
“Luke.” Granny Bea’s voice slips into a seriousness I’ve only heard twice before in my life: once when Kevin died and the second time when I left medicine to pursue this madness. “You’re an incredible songwriter. You’re talented and you know how to sing. She wouldn’t have wanted you otherwise. Why don’t you tell her the truth?”
I ignore the question. She’s going to figure out the truth right now. “I have to go, she’s waiting, but thanks, Granny Bea. I’ll call you later. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I slip the phone in my pocket and open the door.
Mindy’s wearing dark jeans that mold to her hips, tan boots with furry edges, and a light T-shirt under a zip-up sweater, the hood pulled up over her head.
The mere sight of her shoots a bolt of lust straight to my center that’s almost enough to overpower my nerves.
“Are you ready to get started? I’m so excited.” She clutches the strap of a canvas messenger bag, unaware of my inner turmoil, and passes me on her way into the house.
I shut the door, hanging onto the knob for a few seconds, taking a deep breath before I turn around. I can do this.
“I can’t wait to hear your other songs.” She’s already set her bag on the coffee table. Shrugging off her sweater, she drapes it over the back of the chair set to the right of the sofa.
She pulls out a laptop from her bag and powers it on. “I want to hear everything you’ve got, and I’ll make a list so we can decide which ones to work on before the producer arrives in two weeks.”
She’s rested, excited, eager, almost glowing. It’s like she’s taken off the cloak of responsibilities and the things weighing her down. She’s in her element.
I’m ready to throw up, pass out, and possibly expire from supraventricular tachycardia, if the racing of my heart is any indication.
Grabbing my guitar from where it’s resting against the side of the couch, I sit and try to remember to breathe.
I grip the neck, attempting to mask the tremors in my hands.
Why is it that in a life-or-death situation I remain calm with the steadiest of hands and the greatest self-assurance, but give me a guitar and sit me down in front of a near stranger and my composure cracks into pieces?
I strum a few chords, my fingers missing the mark twice, then I halt, take a deep breath, and try again. The second attempt is better, for a few seconds. My fingers won’t cooperate, as they’ve turned into sausages topped with marshmallows. I have to do this. Sweat beads along my hairline.
I sing, but my voice cracks and wobbles, unable to hit the right pitch. I cut off abruptly. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”
