Page 57 of Puck Daddies
I pour a small run, six tins, all at the final ratio. I write the batch number in the corner of the label. I clean up as they cool. I wrap one in brown paper and set it aside for her. The rest go on the shelf to cure. I’ll test burn one tomorrow for a full three-hour cycle and trim the wick after.
After the kitchen is clear, I sit at the table with a notebook. I make a list for the morning. Call the counselor. Deliver Meals on Wheels at noon. Drop Meg’s candle at Bea’s if she has a minute, no pressure. Cook dinner. Sleep early.
I check the highlight clip on my phone because I need to see the hit once more to fix it in my head. It looks like what it was. Not good.
I close it and open the team app. I type a short note to the group chat:My bad on the reverse finish. Won’t happen again.Ellis reacts with a thumbs-up. Carter sends:we got the two points.Rocco adds:learned. next.Fitz sends me a separate text:Proud of you.
I shower, set out my gear for tomorrow, and climb into bed. The room is quiet. The rest is noise I filter out, thinking about what I can do to change things.
Before I sleep, I send Meg one more text:I’ll keep you posted after I talk to the counselor. No replies needed. Rest.She sends back a bee and a heart. I put the phone on the nightstand and turn off the light.
In the dark, the word on the tin across the room helps. BRAVE. It isn’t a headline. It isn’t a chant. It’s a step.
Tomorrow I skate, I call, I deliver meals, I pour a few more, and I keep my hands where they belong.
Tomorrow, I’ll be honest with myself about myself.
Tomorrow, I’ll be brave.
19
ROCCO
The email hitsbefore breakfast with a subject that doesn’t look real:Baritone EP—New York. I tap it and read twice to make sure I’m not misreading.
Rocco—I’m Siena Park, an independent producer. Someone sent your clip. You’ve got a baritone that records clean. I’m assembling a short EP—four to six tracks—for release on a small label I partner with. We’d put you in a month-long studio block in New York with a pianist and engineer I trust. Housing covered. Session musicians as needed. If you’re interested, I’d like to talk timing and repertoire. Best, Siena.
This…this isn’t how this works. Why would she reach out like this?
But I’ve been out of the industry for a while. Maybe things have changed.
I sit at the kitchen table with the phone flat and my hands on either side like it might slide away. A month. New York. Paid housing. Real studio. Four years ago, I would have said yes before the email finished loading. Now I’m careful. We havegames. We have Meg’s building clock. I have a voice I just found and don’t want to break by pushing the wrong way.
I hum low to check where it sits this morning. The note is there. No scrape. No push. I email Siena back:Thank you for reaching out. I’m honored. I have a team schedule to check. Can we talk later today about dates and expectations? My only nonstarter is I’m not chasing tenor.
She replies two minutes later:Of course. 3 p.m. call?
I send yes and put the phone face down.
I have to tell Meg. I pull on a hoodie, grab the tea filters Oliver left on the counter for her, and drive to Bea’s.
The honeycomb wall stops me at the door. Two panels full of names with a third bracket waiting. Anthony is on a stepstool checking a seam. Bex is labeling a tray. Aqua—John today—hands a coffee to Ms. Kuthri. Meg is at the register, moving fast.
I wait for a gap and step up. “Two minutes?”
She glances at the line, then at me. “Office. Tom, you’ve got the register.” She pushes through the swinging door, and I follow. The office smells like paper and cleaner. She shuts the door and leans on the filing cabinet. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I hold up the phone. “A producer saw the video here from the other night. She wants me in New York for a month to cut a baritone EP.”
Her face changes fast—surprise, then bright. “Are you serious?”
“Very.”
She steps in and hugs me before she decides if she should. I hug back because it’s instinct. When she pulls away, she kisses me.It’s quick and certain, mouth to mouth, and then it’s over, and she remembers the line she set. Her hand goes to her forehead. “I know the rule. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I can still feel it. “I’m not deciding today.”
“You don’t have to. But, I am thrilled for you. You sounded like yourself the other night. You should get to put that on record.”
