Page 18 of Counterpoint and Harmony

My thumb hovers over the little arrow for a moment, but I tap it, sending the message. And then I get up and go back in my closet. Unable to sit still and wait for a response.

But I get one before I even reach my closet door.

And then I did what you were afraid I’d do. I’m sorry.

My breath leaves me in a whoosh, something like relief settling over me like a warm blanket. He gets it.

Quickly, before I can overthink it, I type a response.

I’m sorry too. I should’ve told you sooner. When I knew I loved you, I should have told you everything. But I was scared. And I let that take over instead of doing what you deserved.

Even if all this amounts to is some kind of closure between us—because, let’s face it, the odds of us being able to make anything more than a tentative friendship work at this point are vanishingly small—it’s enough. Understanding. Apologies. The ability to move on. It’s enough.

At least that’s what I tell myself. Because hope has not been a good friend to me where relationships are concerned. Especially this one.

Damian texts me again the next day. And the one after that. Soon a week has passed, and we’ve texted every day. Nothing as heavy as that first day, which ended with him thanking me for my apology. Just little everyday things. Discussing music, his upcoming recital in April and the final round of the competition only six weeks away now at the end of March.

“You about ready?” Natalie, my new assistant pokes her head into my room, her hair pulled back into a tiny ponytail.

I give her a smile and nod. “Yeah, give me just a sec.” Picking up my phone, I quickly respond to Damian’s text wishing me luck.Thanks.

Standing, I smooth my hands down my navy pencil skirt that Natalie helped me pick out this morning for my meeting with the label execs. Since hiring a new manager and moving out of my parents’ condo, I’ve replaced my entire staff. New manager, new assistant, new PR person. Everything.

The navy skirt is paired with a cream colored sleeveless blouse, with a deep V that’s low enough to be sexy and allows me to add some flash to my otherwise businesslike outfit with a statement necklace—pink, naturally, now that I’m back to my signature colors.

I check my hair and makeup in the mirror. Subtle and put together, appropriate for a meeting where I want them to take me seriously. Pink lips, too, of course.

“You look great,” Natalie says, still waiting in the doorway. “And the demo is awesome. There’s no way they won’t go for it.”

With a deep breath, I nod and turn to her. “Thanks, Natalie. I appreciate the support.” She gives me a big grin, and we head out the door.

My new manager, Grace, and The Professor—whose real name is Dave—meet me at the label’s offices, and we head up to our appointment together. The receptionist leads us to a conference room where we’re left to wait around a long oval table surrounded by high-backed black leather office chairs, a closed laptop on one end. The chairs are comfy, and Natalie swivels back and forth next to me while we wait.

I want to do the same thing, my nerves making me want to fidget, but I force myself to remain still, my hands folded in my lap, the picture of calm confidence. I learned a long time ago that faking it was almost as good as feeling it. It looks the same to those on the outside, and only feels different to me.

After several minutes, Roger, the head of Reverb Records strolls into the room, his jacket buttoned over his small paunch, his face smiling the smarmy smile of someone used to working a room. He shakes everyone’s hands and introduces himself to Natalie and Grace before sitting down opposite The Professor. Setting his elbows on the table, he steeples his fingers in front of his face, and for a second I flash to the meeting with the Dean of Students when he told me I wasn’t welcome at Marycliff anymore.

But that was another time. Another man. Another life.

This man is going to listen to my demo and approve my pitch for my next album. The demo is fantastic. Everyone who’s heard it loves it, even the stripped down version I performed in Spokane two weeks ago. Imagine the reaction when it’s released as a lead single.

“I understand you have something you want me to listen to.”

Roger directs this statement at The Professor, but I answer. “We do. I’ve been working closely with The Professor, and I think we have the first lead single for my next album.”

Raising his eyebrows to his nonexistent hairline, Roger takes me in. “You contributed to the song?”

“I did.” I keep my voice steady, my eye contact direct but not aggressive.

Roger blows out a breath. “You understand that we’re unlikely to agree to let you write your own album. That’s not your brand. You’re not a singer-songwriter. You’re a performer, and a fantastic one. Stick to your strengths.”

My teeth grind together and my nails dig into the palms of my hands as I try to remain calm in the face of such blatant dismissal. “Performers evolve. Careers evolve. There are plenty of female powerhouses who contribute to the songs on their albums.”

“Mmm, true. But most of them started their careers that way.” Roger gestures at me. “You’re well established. Why fix something that isn’t broken?”

Because it doesn’t work for me, I want to say. But I don’t. That won’t get me anywhere with this man. Instead, I change tactics.

Turning my chair slightly toward the other end of the table, I nod toward The Professor. “We figured you’d say something like that, which is why we brought you a demo. Let you get a taste of what we’re putting together. So far it’s been well received.”

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