Page 79 of Our Final Encore

I sit down on one of the blue couches in the living room. The space is light and airy, decorated with beach-inspired decor like lighthouse paintings and jars of seashells. “I remember yousaying how much you would hate your life if you had to work a regular job.”

He crosses the room to come sit beside me. “My perspective may have changed a bit since then. It’s not as bad as I imagined, honestly. Plus, I don’t see myself ever going on tour again, so I have to be realistic.”

I look up at him, my brows arched. “Never?”

He shrugs, kicking his feet onto the ottoman. “Going on tour with a child would be pretty difficult.”

“Obviously the kid would be with me while you did that.”

He glances over at me. “Maybe when they’re older I’d consider it, but putting all of that responsibility entirely on you would be unfair.”

For the first time since all of this happened, I feel a little bit guilty. I feel like, once again, I’m depriving him of the dream he’s worked so hard for. “Lots of fathers travel for work, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. I mean heck, lots of people who co-parent only see their kid during the summer. We could make it work.”

He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “That’s not really what I want for my child, though.” His eyes connect with mine again. “For our child.”

My heart speeds up a bit from the intensity of our eye contact. “I don’t want you to give up on your career, Alex. That’s not fair.”

“You gave up yours for me. It’s the least I can do, actually.”

We sit there in silence for a moment, as I try to figure out what to say next. I feel like he’s ripped off a band-aid that I forgot I was wearing. “It was my choice,” I say quietly. “You never forced me to give up on it.”

“And you’re not forcing me to give up on mine.” His hand slides over the fabric of the sofa until it softly lands on top of mine. “You had big dreams, too, Opal. I don’t forget.”

The feeling of his skin on mine makes my body heat up at least a few degrees. “Not really, not like yours. I wanted to go to college so I could work a nine-to-five job in an office. That’s not really comparable to what you’ve done.”

“Maybe that’s what you convinced yourself of, but I know what you really wanted. You wanted to be a writer, maybe you still do. There are a lot of different careers you can do with that degree. I know that my dreams overshadowed yours, and I’ll always be sorry for that.”

Warmth spreads through my chest, and the sincerity in his gaze makes me want to tuck myself into his arms and stay there for a while. “It’s okay.”

“Do you ever write anymore?”

My eyes flick away from his to the floor, and I nod. “I do. Sometimes I post some of my stuff on Instagram.”

“What, for real? Can I see?” His eyes light up with the same passion and excitement I’ve always seen in them when he plays guitar or talks about his music, and it makes my stomach feel funny.

“Um,” I pause. I’ve never shown my account to anyone in real life, but part of me wants to share it with him. “Okay.”

I stand up and cross the room to retrieve my bag from the kitchen, then rifle through it until I find my phone. I pull up my Instagram app and then switch it to my poetry account.

I don’t post any photos of myself on this account, so aside from my initials at the end of each poem it’s totally anonymous. I prefer it that way.

My hand shakes a bit as I hand it to him. Even though I post something to this page almost every week, it feels scary showing it to someone when they know I’m the person writing it. Being anonymous makes writing a whole lot less intimidating for me.

His green eyes light up as they dance over the screen. “Damn, almost ten thousand followers? When did you make this?”

I shrug. “Like two years ago.”

He taps on the first post and scans his eyes over it, then scrolls onto the next one. He’s silent for a few minutes, and I start to feel even more awkward and exposed. I sit down beside him, but try not to stare at my phone or at him.

“These are amazing, Opal.”

I flick my eyes up to meet his as a blush crawls up my cheeks. “Really?”

He nods. “You’re talented. Obviously.”

I’ve never felt like that was obvious. Even though I am proud of the small following I’ve gained on there, I know it’s a tiny drop in the bucket compared to actually successful creators and writers.

“Thanks,” I give him a small but sincere smile. It means something to me that he appreciates my work. Sometimes, even though I never imagined he’d read any of it, I felt like I was writing my poems just for him. Like they were little letters to him that I’d never send.

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