Page 77 of The Sound of Us

I felt sick at the idea of keeping a secret from him, especially one of such magnitude. “I won’t lie to him, Noah. I can try and avoid him to buy you some time, but—”

“Give me one week,” Noah said. “There’s stuff I need to do first, and it won’t happen while I’m in a hospital bed.”

“One week. And then if you don’t tell him, I will.”

After taking care of Noah’s pets, I returned to Dante’s place to get my bag. I made the bed and took a few minutes to wander around, checking out the concert posters on the wall and Noah’s collection of vintage guitars. Music was everywhere, but I couldn’t see even a flicker of Dante’s personality reflected in the vast collection of memorabilia. Dante was a collector of experiences, not things. He felt music. He didn’t need replica hells bells or shrunken Iron Maiden heads to bring it to life.

After I tidied up the bedroom, I went to his desk to find a piece of paper to write a sexy note. I was flipping through the mess when I saw my name.

For the briefest second, I hesitated. I had no desire to look at his personal papers, but I couldn’t think of any reason why he would have a letter on Havencrest University letterhead with my name on it.

It only took me a few seconds to skim through the contents.Havencrest’s president had written to Dante to thank him for funding the WJPK journalism internship, and to let him know that the first recipient of his generous scholarship was me.

My breath left me in a rush, and I collapsed into the chair. I must have read it wrong. People who set up scholarships were rich. They didn’t live above a rundown garage in an apartment filled with someone else’s stuff. They didn’t wear worn jeans and frayed T-shirts and eat pizza off paper plates.

Hands shaking, I read the letter again and again in the hopes that it wasn’t really my name on the page. But no matter how many times I stared at it, my name stared right back. Bile rose in my throat and my vision blurred. My instinct had been right the day I’d packed up my bags to go home.

How could he do this to me?

Why did he lie?

My heart pounded so hard I could barely hear for the rush of blood in my ears. Noah had to be in on it, too. He’d just told me Dante had a reason for saying he wanted to keep our relationship under the radar—and that reason had to be the risk of someone finding out that the scholarship hadn’t gone to the best candidate. Dante had probably agreed to fund the internship to save the station on the condition Noah hire me. Quid pro quo. But why? For an easy hookup? A challenge? Was it all just a game?

I felt utterly ridiculous, remembering my total shock when Noah had called to offer me the job after my terrible broadcast; the day I’d overheard Dante tell him he didn’t want to supervise me; Dante’s hot and cold, and his insistence we keep our relationship secret. Sweat beaded on my forehead and I dropped my head to my hands. Who else knew? Were the friends I’d made at the station really my friends?

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

My ears rang with memories of my father’s words, his admonishments, his anger and disappointment.How could you miss that shot? Why weren’t you there to catch that throw? You are the greatest disappointment of my life.

I couldn’t breathe. There wasn’t enough oxygen in the room. I pushed the chair back, grabbed my bag, and ran out of the apartment.

I had always felt like I didn’t deserve Dante’s praise—great job on the copy, excellent piece, good girl…

Pulse racing, caught in a spiral of panic and humiliation, I retched into the garden, bringing everything up.

I’d fallen for him, utterly and completely. I’d bought the whole damn story, but everything was a lie.

My heart splintered into a thousand pieces.

In the end, my father was right. I was never going to be good enough.

CHAPTER THIRTY“Everybody Hurts” by R.E.M.DANTE

I hadn’t seen Skye for four days when she showed up at the station for our show. She’d called in sick for work, both at the station and at the coffee shop, and wouldn’t respond to any of my messages. I’d tracked down both Haley and Isla, neither of whom had anything to say.

The sinking feeling I’d had all week got even worse when she arrived in the studio only minutes before I was about to send Nick out to find her.

“You’ve got three minutes,” Nick said, shutting down the screens he’d used for his show. “I’ve put on ‘City of Stars’ to keep things mellow before you guys get into it. What’s the topic for the day? Something juicy I hope. I was disappointed that Noah canceled your show last week.”

“We’re going to talk about the commercialization and authenticity of music.” Skye took her seat beside me. “We can debate whether popular bands and artists have sold out their artistic integrity for the sake of commercial success.”

Puzzled, I frowned. “I thought we were going to talk about punk rock.”

“I thought this would be more appropriate since you are clearly the kind of person who believes in success at all costs, regardless of whether you undermine a person’s competence or vision, whereas I believe in authenticity.” She pulled on her headphones before Icould respond, and I did the same, trying to focus through the maelstrom of emotions swirling in my brain. Skye wasn’t just angry; she was furious, and I had a sneaking suspicion I knew why. Part of me had hoped she’d be happy, even grateful that I’d funded the internship, but another part of me had always known how she would feel about it, which was why I had never come clean.

After the filler song ended, I introduced the topic and turned the microphone over to Skye, who launched into the discussion without preamble.

“When a band achieves commercial success, they often have to make compromises, sacrificing their authenticity to please record labels and mainstream audiences. Some bands, however, would rather stay true to themselves and their vision. They don’t believe in success at all costs.”

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