Page 24 of Sure, Pal

10

Sienna

Isat at my desk, rubbing my temples, willing the clock to change from 3:30 to 5:00 pm magically. I’d been working as an office bitch at an educational software company for two weeks, and I already wanted to quit. I was starting to understand, just a little, why my dad was always in such a lousy mood growing up.

“Did you send the contract over to Mountain Ridge School District yet?”

When I glanced up and saw one of the salesman looking at me, I straightened in my chair and cleared my throat. “Uh, doing that right now! Sorry!”

The salesman —Tom or Dave, or something boring like that— folded his arms and furrowed his brow.

Calm down, Tim. You’ll get your stupid commission check whether I send the contract now or in ten minutes. To him, I just gave a bland smile and turned back to my computer screen. He stood over my shoulder and watched me email the paperwork to his client.

“Thank you.” He gave me a pointed look and stalked off back to his office.

Did I honestly attend four goddamn years of college and wrack up tens of thousands of dollars of student loan debt to end up here? My phone buzzed in my bag, and I glanced around the office to make sure no one was looking before pulling it out.

I read the text, and my heart rammed against my ribcage. It was the owner of a little bar downtown, letting me know he had an opening for a performer tonight. I’d get paid $100 for an hour-long set, and if it went well, he’d add me to his list of regulars. Holy shit. I shot off a quick reply to let him know I’d take the time slot and slid my phone back into my bag.

This would only be my third paid gig. My nerves ruled my first one, and it turned out to be a complete disaster. My voice was tight and strained, and I rushed my first three songs, so I ran out of things to play almost ten minutes early.

The second one was better, but not great. I really wanted to nail this one tonight. I needed a little validation that it was worth my time to keep pursuing my music.

As soon as work was over, I rushed home to change and grab my guitar. I thought about calling Ava and telling her about the gig, but she was probably busy tonight. She was always busy lately, now that she was Insta-famous.

I wasn’t sure if I wanted her to know I was playing in public yet anyway. Ava used to force me to play in front of our college friends and then get annoyed with me when I told her my music would never pay the bills.

And it didn’t! It only paid one bill — my cell phone bill — not bills, plural. So technically, I was still right. But Ava would purse her pretty little done-up lips at me and say some bullshit about me “self-handicapping, and hiding.”

Maybe I was hiding, but I wasn’t even remotely ready for Ava’s level of fame. She’d turned her beauty blog into a wild success, and now she had more money and attention than she even knew what to do with. Sometimes, when it was just Ava and me, her shoulders would slump, and the bags under her eyes would show. On those nights, Ava’s fame looked heavy.

I picked up my new guitar and ran my hands over it. It was a gift from Ava for my twenty-second birthday, and she’d spared no expense. She’d even had a little rose custom engraved right below the bridge. Ava always told me I was like a rose, gorgeous and sweet once you got past the thorns.

After I’d unwrapped the guitar at the huge ridiculous party she threw for me, Ava said, “Now you have to play in front of more people!”

I appreciated Ava’s love and support, but she’d been a little pushy lately, and I wanted to go after my dreams on my terms. I didn’t want Ava’s help. I didn’t want to ride her coattails and stay in her shadow. I’d tell her about the gigs soon, after I’d built up something solid by myself.

I hurried out the front door of my apartment and headed to the bar.

There were only a handful of people in the bar when I arrived. A few more trickled in as I stepped onto the stage with my guitar. My heart pounded in my throat, and I felt nauseous.

Suddenly a pair of deep blue eyes filled my mind, and I could almost hear the last words my high school crush said to me. “Keep playing. You’re really good.” I wondered for a split second if Evan was happy and if he’d found someone that he loved more than Ava and more than me.

I hoped so.

I cleared my throat and started to play the pop covers I’d practiced that week. My voice sounded too thin. Shit, shit, shit! I needed to relax! This time, Evan’s smile filled my head. I felt a familiar warmth spread through my chest, and then my voice came out clear and strong.

It was pathetic that I still thought about Evan so much, and even more so that he was the thing that calmed me down when I sang. He’d loved me once, over four years ago, and now he was on the other side of the fucking country. I didn’t know what sad little hope I was holding on to.

When I started my next song, I saw a group of college kids pause their conversation and stop to listen to me. It made my heart skip a beat and almost made me forget the lyrics.

By the time I got to the end of my set, there were over twenty strangers in the bar, and half of them were looking right at me. I’d played for this many people before, but they were all friends. This was a brand new terrifying and electrifying experience.

I closed my eyes and sang the last note of the last song. My eyes popped open at the sound of scattered applause, and one lady even gave me a “Woo-hoo!” I smiled and waved at her, then packed up my guitar. This was my best gig yet.

The bar owner walked over to the little stage and handed me a check. “Well done,” he said. “You’re welcome back any time.”

“Thank you so much!” My smile was too big.

“Oh,” he turned over his shoulder, “I have a guy that’s looking for someone to sing duets with him. He plays here almost every Thursday and Friday night. Should I give him your contact info?”

Wow. If I could start landing regular gigs, I might actually have a shot at building a real music career. I nodded. “Yeah. I’d definitely be interested!”

Was this really happening? I knew it was such a small thing, but it hardly felt real.

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