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Mindy’s brows are drawn in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“I can’t sing.”
She frowns. “What are you talking about? I’ve heard you sing. Those recordings you sent me . . . .” Her eyes widen, alarm blanching her face. “Was that someone else? Did you fake—”
“No, no, no.” I rush to assure her. “It was me. I’m sorry.” I blow out a breath and set the guitar to the side, running both hands through my hair and holding my head. “I misspoke. Icansing; it is me singing on the recordings I sent you. It’s only that, I have to be alone or I just-I can’t.” My hands release my hair, clenching in my lap. “I have a problem with singing in front of other people,” I finish. The words emerge stilted and awkward.
She sits back in the chair, her mouth popping open. “Other people? Like, at all?”
My stomach twists itself into knots. “I’ve sung in front of my parents and Granny Bea, but I know them really well. The only other person I’ve been able to play in front of is Walter.”
“Who’s Walter?”
“He lives in the building I was staying in, in New York.”
She stares at me, emotions flickering across her face. Concern, confusion, worry, and then she leans forward, elbows on her knees, fingers rubbing at her temples. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I should have. I thought I could do this.”
“You thought? Past tense?”
“I think I can. I know I can, I just might need a little . . . time.”
She stands, moving in front of the couch and pacing the same line I had been tracing all morning. “We don’t have time, Luke, we have deadlines.”
I groan, flopping back against the couch. “I know. I’ve been trying. Every day I went to the park and watched buskers. I tried to play in less populated areas of the park, but every time my throat would close up, my palms would sweat, nausea would overwhelm me, and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”
She stops pacing and blows out a breath, eyes falling shut for a couple of seconds before opening again. “That’s all very Eminem8 Mileof you, but it’s okay. We can work on it.” Her words are positive, but her voice is getting higher and squeakier with each passing word. “Barbra Streisand has crippling stage fright; did you know that?”
“No.”
Her head bobs. “She went blank in front of 150,000 people in Central Park,” she releases a short, nervous laugh, “and she was not able to recover. She left the stage, just bailed. If she can survive that, you can survive this.” She points at me.
“I am definitely not Barbra Streisand.”
“No. And you’re not going to be playing in front of thousands of people, at least not initially. I’ve booked you much smaller venues. You’re a new artist. We aren’t ready for Madison Square Garden. But there are things we can do to mitigate your anxiety. Streisand had a rider that stipulated total blackness in the audience so she couldn’t see them. That helped. We can do something like that, we can stage that. And more. We can work on this.”
I blink. “We can?”
“How did you practice? To be able to play in front of Walter, I mean.” Her hands clench at her sides.
Oddly, my heart rate has slowed the slightest bit, as if releasing the burden of carrying around this secret, without the world collapsing on me, has done some part in reducing the pressure in my chest. I swallow, my mouth still dry. “He would listen to me play from the hall outside my door where I couldn’t see him.”
She grimaces but nods. “Right. We can do that. I can do that. Then we can slowly have you play around other people.”
“Okay. I’ll do whatever it takes, I promise.”
Her eyes search mine for a few seconds. “Is this why you asked about songwriting?”
I dip my head in acknowledgment. “Yes. That’s always been my end goal.”
“Right. Right. We can work with this. But you will need to fulfill the terms of your contract.”
“I will. I promise.”
She presses her lips together and then blows out a breath. “We can start slow, but it’s going to be hard. I need you to promise me you’ll do the very best you can. Can you do that?”
“I can. I’m sorry again. I know I should have mentioned it sooner—”
