Page 11 of Come Around
“Yeah, I’m still pretty new. I moved here three months.” I look out the window at the darkened storefronts of Cooper Heights. “Still figuring things out.”
“Where were you before?”
“Connecticut.” I trace a pattern on the leather armrest. “Fairfield County. Land of hedge fund managers and country clubs.”
He glances at me. “That’s a long way from Wyoming.”
“That was kind of the point.”
“What brought you here?”
I consider deflecting, giving the abbreviated version I usually offer. But something about the darkness of the truck cab and the way he asks makes me want to be honest.
“Freedom, I guess.” I watch his profile as he drives. “My parents had my whole life mapped out. Prestigious college, law degree, corporate job, marriage to someone from their social circle. When I dropped out to pursue music instead, they cutme off. Made it clear I wasn’t welcome in their world anymore unless I gave up my ‘foolish dreams’ and went back to finish my degree.”
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “What kind of music?”
“Piano, mainly.” I smile despite myself. “I want to score films eventually. Create the soundtracks that make scenes come alive.”
“That’s incredible.” His voice is warm. “Film scoring is competitive as hell, but if you’re good enough to leave your family behind for it, you must be talented.”
I feel heat creep up my neck. I’m not used to people taking my dreams seriously.
“I’m working on building a portfolio. Recording equipment is expensive, though, so it’s slow going.”
“You should play for me sometime.”
My chest tightens with anxiety.
“I don’t really perform for people,” I say quickly, looking out the window again.
“Why not?”
Because the last time I played for someone who mattered, they told me I was wasting my time. Because my parents’ friends used to request songs at dinner parties just so they could talk over my playing. Because putting my music out there feels like handing someone a loaded gun and asking them to aim it at my heart.
“I just prefer to keep it private,” I say instead.
He’s quiet for a moment, and I can feel him processing my response.
“I get that,” he says finally. “Music is personal. Sacred, even. But someday, when you’re ready, I’d love to hear what you create.”
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard.
“Maybe,” I whisper, and I’m surprised to find I might actually mean it.
We pull into the parking lot of a small diner I recognize but have never been inside. The neon sign reads “Owen’s Table.” I look up at the elegant Victorian building with its warm golden lights illuminating the windows.
“This place is still open?” I ask. Owen’s Table is the most upscale restaurant in Fit Mountain. I’ve walked past it during my afternoon strolls, but always assumed it was well beyond my budget.
“The kitchen closes at 3 AM.” Axel parks the truck and comes around to open my door before I can reach for the handle. “The owner’s an insomniac who believes good food should be available at all hours.”
“But I’m not dressed for?—”
“You’re perfect.” He takes my hand again, helping me down from the high seat of his truck.
The moment we walk through the door, I feel painfully out of place. The interior is all polished wood and soft lighting, with white tablecloths and crystal glasses catching the glow of candles. A few late-night diners in business attire occupy corner tables, speaking in hushed tones.
The hostess’s eyes light up the moment she sees us.
