Page 29 of Ignacio

“A little,” she admitted.

“A little?”

“Okay, I have dozens of songs written,” she confessed.

She had written songs the label had passed on to other singers, several of which continued to generate good money due to the success of the artists singing the lyrics. But most of the songs she had kept to herself.

“If you have dozens, why don’t you use some of them?”

Delta laughed shortly. “They don’t want those songs. They’re too angsty.”

“Have you asked?” He raised his right eyebrow.

“No,” Delta admitted in a low voice.

“Then you don’t know that they don’t want your songs. I remember you wrote some good poetry.”

“You’re a liar,” she muttered.

Ignacio’s eyebrows snapped together. “What did you say?”

“You’re a liar,” Delta said louder.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I bet you don’t remember a single line from one of my poems.”

He didn’t say a word at first, and she watched him defiantly, daring him to contradict her. Then he spoke.

“Flowers blooming through the frost

Hearts dare beat though all is lost

Love is passion, love is pain

Love is sunshine, love is rain”

“Th-that’s my poem, Love Is. How did you… I don’t understand. You remembered that?”

“Of course I remembered it. It was beautiful. Angsty. Emotional.” Ignacio began reciting the rest of the verses, and all Delta could do was stare. At the end, she joined him in repeating the last two lines.

“Love is passion, love is pain. Love is sunshine, love is rain.” She drew in a tremulous breath, shocked and overwhelmed. “I wrote that in tenth grade.”

“You wrote it our junior year,” Ignacio corrected.

Delta paused. “Oh my goodness, you’re right!” She laughed. He remembered better than she did. “I can’t believe…”

“I told you, you write good stuff. You need to believe in yourself, Delta.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “You’re right. But I’m not as confident about my skills as you are, I guess.”

Imposter syndrome. She had learned the phrase years ago in therapy and had come to better understand those feelings of inadequacy and the belief that she didn’t deserve her status in the industry. Her last album flopping certainly didn’t help.

He had been self-assured, even when they were teenagers in the performing arts club in middle school. Because of her good grades, she had won a scholarship to attend the prestigious Westerly Academy, where the wealthy and notable people in Atlanta sent their kids. That’s where they had become close.

He never seemed to have doubts, and at times, that rubbed other kids the wrong way. They had called him egotistical and conceited, but none of the disparaging words had affected him. He knew he was good at his craft, and if anything, while they whined and complained, he worked hard to be better.

“I’m not always confident,” Ignacio admitted. “But I remind myself that if I don’t believe in myself, why should anyone else?” He shrugged.

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