He jerks his head back, affronted. “What are you talking about? Every time you’ve asked me to produce anything for you, I’ve said yes. I’ve cleared my schedule and pushed off paying clients to make room for you. I’ve always supported you.”
My mouth gapes open. I never realized he actually carved out time for me. I just figured he worked me into his downtime. “But you always acted like you were doing it out of pity. Like I suck.”
He makes an exasperated noise. “That’s because you were singing shit songs that don’t do you any justice. But you’re always so damn arrogant and think you know everything, that if I said anything, you ignored me. I was only ever trying to get you to pick something better. Not give up.”
I look all around, like the right response will come to me from somewhere in the blue sky or the big maple tree in the yard. “Why … what?”
He throws his hands up. “Are you fucking kidding me? You thought I was, what? Laughing at you behind your back? Waiting for you to fail?”
I look around again before refocusing on my brother. “Well … I mean … yeah. Kinda.” When he looks offended, I scramble to try to patch it up. “Not just you. I mean, I figured Jonathan thought that too. That’s why he’d never help me or pass along my demos. I figured you guys were happy with your lives, and I was just your annoying little brother trying to copy you in some way.”
Anger and frustration and something like amusement war for dominance on Brendan’s face. “You’re so dumb,” he says at last.
“That’s all you have to say?” I ask, my arms spread wide.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah. That about sums it up. Jonathan and I were looking out for you. Like we always have. Like we always will. You asked Jonathan to pass around your shitty demos. He didn’t want everyone to think you were a joke. So he said no. I tried to steer you away from your shitty song choices, and you ignored me. We were trying to keep you from sabotaging yourself. And then this chick comes along and singlehandedly gets you to pick better songs and start actually performing up to the standards we all know you can meet. I’m fucking thrilled you want me to produce an album for you now. I did it before because you’re my brother, and I’ll always help you. But now? Now you have a project I’m excited to work on. And Jonathan would’ve written you songs long before now if he thought you wouldn’t see it as some kind of pity handout.”
I stare at him in stunned silence. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“Say, ‘I’m sorry for being a dumb shit with my head so far up my ass that I almost turned inside out.’”
I let out a bark of startled laughter. “I’m sorry for being a dumb shit with my head so far up my ass that I almost turned inside out.”
He nods, satisfied, and stares at me for a beat. “So Lauren and I can come to your show? She’s been dying to see you live, and I have to admit that I’m excited to hear you in person so I can get a better idea of how to set up the studio to best capture your aesthetic.”
Shaking my head, I let out another laugh. “Yes. You guys can come to my show.”
With a nod, he turns and heads for the door, and I follow him in, bemused. Here I always thought my brothers were assholes who either pitied me or tried to hold me back. Turns out they were just trying to save me from myself.
What else have I been all wrong about?
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Alexis
Nerves ride a tilt-a-whirl in my stomach as I approach the venue, my hand sweating as it clutches the handle of my guitar case.
I haven’t felt this nervous before a performance in …
Ages. Maybe one of those talent shows I was reminiscing about? The first time I played solo, just me and my guitar?
But these nerves are different. These aren’t about performing, not per se, at least.
These are about Colt’s reaction to me showing up at all.
Will he talk to me? Will he be mad that I didn’t call him back?
Some part of me hopes he’ll be happy to see me. That we’ll get to talk after the show, I’ll pull out the divorce papers and tear them apart in front of him, tell him I won’t sign with a label that required that much control of my personal life, and that I want him. Forever.
But mostly I worry he’ll be furious.
I’ve spent the last several days thinking and planning. When I saw that the venue had removed me from the billing, I called immediately, explained there’d been some kind of misunderstanding, and that yes, I absolutely would be there as planned.
Since Colt hasn’t posted anything online about us splitting up, I have to believe that he’s waiting for me, or more accurately, the label’s PR team, to announce it. But I have no intention of doing that. Not unless he signed those papers for a different reason than I thought.
Maybe I should’ve returned his calls, but I didn’t think he’d be willing to actually listen to me. And I wasn’t willing to get trapped into that conversation on the phone.
No, it has to be face-to-face. And since I still don’t know where he’s staying, tonight is my first and best option.
So here I am, guitar in hand, hoping that he won’t see me until we’re on stage together.
Maybe that’s shitty too. Maybe I should find him before the show and let him know I’m here. That I’m playing the show, we’re doing it as planned, and that we need to have a real conversation afterward. The conversation we should’ve had days ago, but he left before we could.
Instead, the tech dressed in black meets me at the stage door and shows me to a dressing room. I hold my breath the entire way down the hall, especially when I pass the door with Colt’s name on it. But he doesn’t appear anywhere, and then I’m safely in my own dressing room, where I can relax and prepare for the show, followed by a showdown.
Opening my case, I remove my guitar, softly strumming the strings to make sure it’s still in tune. Then I pull out the envelope of papers, laying them on the counter so they’re ready for when I need them.
Sitting quietly, I take several deep breaths, calming and centering myself. If I’m going to pull this off, I need to be on top of my game. Because there’s a good chance that me showing up will throw Colt off in a big way. He’s professional enough and we’ve played this show enough that I’m confident he’ll recover. But I need to not falter.
After gathering myself, I start playing quietly. It’s the new song that I wrote at my mom’s house. And I’m hoping that it’ll go a long way toward clearing up this misunderstanding.
Because I’m hanging on tight to the fact that’s what all this is. A big, fat, ugly misunderstanding.
I should’ve told him about Delores giving me the divorce papers the day it happened. I should’ve told him, and then I should’ve shredded them on the spot. Because that was never an option for me.
If I’d done that, none of this would’ve happened.
“Five minutes,” the stage manager calls through my dressing room door.
“Thank you, five,” I call back, setting down my guitar and wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans.