Page 25 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

She sighs and turns to storm away, but the paper I dropped gets caught under her feet and her eyes lock on it. Before I can grab it, she scoops it up, her eyes narrowing as she reads.

“What is this?” Emily says, looking up at me.

She turns the handwritten note toward me, and I want to sink into a hole in shame, so I avert my eyes to the floor.

“It’s nothing . . . it’s stupid . . .”

She scoffs. “Stupid?” She holds it up with a shaking hand and starts to read in a too-loud voice. “Be asked for an autograph,See the band’s name on a marquee,Play at Madison Square Garden. I don’t know if stupid sums this up. This is idiotic, Dave. How can you think this is ever going to happen?”

“You don’t know it won’t.”

She crumples the paper further and presses her bone-white knuckles to her lips. “So is this what you’re doing when you’re supposed to be getting your high school credits? Daydreaming and making lists of what you want to do when you’re a rockstar?”

Leaning forward, I reach a hand out. “Em, come on,” I say, pulling her toward me. She hesitates at first, but after a few tugs, she relinquishes and comes to stand between my knees. I wrap my arms around her thighs and rest my forehead against her stomach. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, defeated. “I tried.”

She’s stiff at first, not touching me. Then her hand strokes the top of my head. “I just don’t understand how this happened. Why didn’t you tell me you were struggling? I could’ve helped.”

I shake my head. How can I explain to her that school hasn’t mattered to me in months? That I know what I want to do with my life, and it’snotbeing an accountant like my dad. That what grades I had in high school won’t matter. All I want is to play music, and I have no problem flipping hamburgers for minimum wage until that happens. To be honest, it scares me. Like if I find myself in a job that pays well and has a future, I’ll lose sight of the dream—the prize. I won’t push myself to do what it takes to make it as a drummer. But to Emily? That sounds crazy.

“I know,” I say finally, looking up at her beautiful face. “I fucked up.”

She sighs. “I just— I love you so much, and I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but . . .”

My muscles tighten, waiting for the words I know she’s going to say.

“I know you think that music is all you’re meant to do. But . . . that’s not real life. The chances of you succeeding the way you want are lower than getting hit by lightning. You need to grow up.”

I let go of her and push myself off the couch, snapping up the handwritten list crumpled at her feet. “At least I have a dream. A goal. What do you have?”

She spins and blinks at me, her face turning a deep crimson. “Don’t try to turn this around on me. You’re the one with this stupid dream that’s ruining your life. Just how much money have you spent on cassettes and audio recording equipment, huh?”

“You’re one to talk! At least I’m spending my money on something that will help me achieve what I want. What do you do?” I spit back, knowing I’m out of line, but too angry to care. “Partying every weekend? How many times have I had to come pick you up when you’re passed out on someone’s lawn?”

Tears well in her eyes, and I’m immediately filled with regret. That was uncalled for. I take a deep breath. “Emily, I—”

But she turns on her heel and stomps into the house, bumping her shoulder into Sam on the way.

“Em?” he asks.

She doesn’t stop, and a few moments later, we both hear the sound of a door slamming shut.

Sam turns to me, his lips pursed with annoyance. “What the fuck did you say?”

I run my hand down my face and sigh. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. I warned you, Noblar. I warned you not to hurt her.”

“I know.” I shake my head. “I’ll go apologize.”

I head into the house and toward Emily’s bedroom on the second floor. Her door is shut, so I tap my knuckles against the hollow wood.

“Go away.”

I smile. “You know, I think it’s obvious from my report card that I’m terrible at following instructions.”

Turning the handle, I open the door and step inside. Emily is sitting on the floor, her back against the bed with a cigarette burning in one hand. I approach her tentatively, but as I do, I see a half empty bottle of vodka sloppily hidden behind the corner of her dresser. My chest aches.

I slide down to sit next to her on the floor and point to the bottle. “You should give that to me,” I say gently, holding out my hand. She doesn’t move for a while, just sits like a statue with her cigarette.

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