Page 32 of Last Chorus

My parents are overjoyed when I begin calling them a few times a week. Receptive to my unwillingness to talk about myself, they stick to safe topics like my brother’s newest girlfriend, the painting my mom is working on, and my dad’s new whittling hobby that will last, at best, another month or two.

One day, I impulsively send Rye a meme. He sends one back, and before I know it, we’re exchanging them daily. Around the same time, I ask Lily for photos of Emma, which become routine video calls. At first, my goddaughter doesn’t seem to know who I am—a fact that hurts more than it should since she’s literally a baby. But it doesn’t take long for Lily to start sending me videos of Emma asking if “Aun-jelly” can sing to her.

I start playing guitar again, too. For a few minutes aday at first, then a few hours. My calluses reform. Soreness in my arms and back peaks and fades.

The more I play, the more Ilisten,the more I come to understand that music never left me. I was the one who turned my back on music.And with that realization, a floodgate opens.

I overflow lyrics and melodies.

Mixed with my relief is guilt over keeping the news from Clay. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to jinx the return of my muse, but it’s really because I’m not writing solo pop songs.

I’m writing the next Glow album.

Telling him would be more than a test of our relationship—it would be a crucible. And although there are moments wherein I sense the crossroads ahead of me, I’m not ready to face it. Not yet. Not even as every song I write pulls down another wall inside me. Opens another door of memories.

I’m remembering myself, who I was before I became the very thing I was most afraid of—the endless, uncaring dark.

And if I’m remembering someone else at the same time? Seeing our past anew through a wide-angled lens? Finding comfort in his promise the last time I saw him?

There’s nothing I can do about it.

He is, after all, a part of me.

Tuesday evening,the week of the Grammys, begins like every other recent night. Clay comes home from work, spends forty-five minutes in the gym, then showers and joins me in the formal dining room with its too-large table and uncomfortably stiff chairs.

Over salmon with mushroom risotto—I hate mushrooms, but it’s Clay’s preferred Tuesday meal—he tells me about winning a copyright case in court today. I respond exactly as I’m supposed to, with effusive praise, while ignoring the dread and determination sitting side by side in my chest.

When Clay finishes eating, he signals to our chef, Paul, who moves forward to clear dishes from the table. I shift in my seat, uncomfortable as always with the power differential.

In his late sixties, Paul works tirelessly for us every morning and most evenings. On Sundays, he’s here almost all day, prepping lunches for the week. He does his best to make my restrictive menu flavorful, sneaks me chocolate chip muffins a few times a month, and chats with me whenever Clay isn’t home.

Lifting my plate, Paul eyes my untouched pile of risotto like it personally pains him. Before he can ask to make me something else as he does every week, I smilewarmly and shake my head. It’s hard enough sitting here while he waits on us; no way am I making him work more than he already does. No matter how hungry I am.

“It was delicious Paul, thank you,” I murmur, and he gives me a soft smile. “Have you thought any more about a vacation? I bet Laurie would love a trip to see your grandkids.”

He glances furtively across the table. “I haven’t, no.” Before I can respond, he beats a hasty retreat.

“Inciting rebellion among the staff?”

Clay’s smile is teasing, but there’s a coolness in his eyes I haven’t witnessed for a few weeks. The sight is oddly comforting, like slipping back into a familiar, if painful, reality.

“Just making sure they’re happy,” I say flippantly, then continue before I lose my nerve. “I know it’s game night and the guys will be here soon, but can we talk about this weekend for a minute?”

His smile brightens. “Have you changed your mind about Friday night?”

“Ah, no. I haven’t.”

Goodbye smile.

“I’m disappointed to hear that. You already turned down the invitation to perform, but skipping the gala,too?” He shakes his head. “Terrible decision, not to mention lazy of your manager to allow it.”

I have no idea why, but I want to laugh. His tone is so autocratic it’s theatrical. Resisting a childish urge to mock it, I reply, “Regardless, I haven’t changed my mind.”

Clay lifts his wine glass, swirling the dark liquid before taking a sip. “This casual throwing away of free publicity… is it going to become a habit?”

My internal levity disappears. “I’ve worked myself to the bone for years. I’ve earned some rest. Mallory knows this.”

He sniffs. “Moving on. What did you want to talk about?”

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