Page 115 of Forgotten Pieces

Charlie crosses her arms and raises a brow at me. “Let me guess, someone ruined it all for you and now you won’t sing because of it?”

I startle at her correct guess. “Ugh…”

She holds her hands up in front of me. “Hey, I am not going to ask questions. You can tell me if you want, whenever you want. But if singing made you happy, why did you stop? It doesn’t have to be Broadway; it could be anywhere.”

I sigh as I look down at the floor. “I don’t sing for anyone anymore. I can’t.”

“I wasn’t talking about singing for anyone.”

I look at her puzzled.

“I was talking about singing for you.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“It might help you heal. Heal from whatever happened to you when you were on Broadway. Heal over the wounds Ryder left on your heart.”

The thought of singing again gives me mixed emotions. I found peace in singing. But singing also means I would need to mentally face everything in my past. “I don't know.”

Charlie crosses her arms over her chest as she leans back on a shelf. “I have a friend that runs the jazz club down the street. He could probably squeeze you in for a night. See how it feels.”

“I don't think so.”

“It’s a far step from Broadway but I think it will do you good,” she says with sincerity.

“I don’t even know how to sing jazz.” The lie rolls off my tongue, any excuse I can think of to get out of this conversation.

She smirks at me. “I doubt that. If you were on Broadway, got a minor in musical theater, I am sure you can sing jazz.”

She’s got me there and she knows it. Maybe she is right. Maybe I do need this. Ryder even told me so months ago. How much could it hurt to try? “What’s your friend’s name?”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Four Months Later

Tacoma

“Thank you,” I say to the crowd in the small jazz club as I set my microphone back on the stand and head off the stage. I walk to the bar and order a whiskey. All signs of my healing, Charlie would say.

I turn around and lean against the bar as I sip on my drink and watch the next singer get on stage. I only drink whiskey when I’m working at the club. One glass before and one glass after. The first glass helps my voice get more grit. The second calms my nerves when I get offstage. Despite going on four months of singing here, twice a week, I still get nervous. Not when I am on stage but after, worried that I sounded like shit or sounded fake. Jazz was never my strong suit but I’ve learned to sing it.

“You sounded good out there tonight,” Leon, the owner of the club, says to me.

I look over at him and smile. “Thanks.”

“You’ve been practicing.”

I shrug and look back toward the stage.

“You healin’ too, Cherie. I hear it in your voice.”

I look back at him but his eyes are on the stage. “I didn’t know you knew.”

“I don’t know a thing, Cherie. But I can hear it when you sing.”

I throw back the rest of my whiskey and for the first time since I moved to New Orleans I order another glass.

I turn when I feel Leon’s hand on my shoulder. “Keep doing what you’re doing. You belong here, Cherie.”

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