Page 7 of Sing For Me

I once had dreams of being known for my music, before I got it stamped out of me. But now the whole world’s going to know me as Reese Franco, Restaurant Manager. Or at least the million-plus audience ofChef’s Apprentice.

“What would you say if I said you were going to be on TV?”

“I’d say go home and lock the doors because I’m going to kill you.”

I groan, covering my face with my hands as I remember that call with Eli.

“Filming’s only six weeks total,” he’d promised, “and they’ll film early so you can have the kitchen back by the afternoon.”

If only it were that easy. What it was going to be was six weeks of my bombastic—and secretly needy and sensitive—executive chef Jacques Leclerc on a televised power trip every morning. Six weeks of adjusting staffing, menus, and guest expectations to open at noon every weekday morning, cancelling our extremely popular brunch seating.

And all eyes on us.

Luckily, the focus will all be on Jacques and the contestants.

Unluckily, Eli’s getting away with this.

I’m sorry, Reese, I can’t do this. I know I said I could but…I’m fucking scared, Reese.

That earlier conversation with Eli, from two years ago, comes through even louder, making my stomach plunge.

I reach over and plug my phone into my stereo with speakers far too powerful for my tiny office, and flip through my music player, hovering over myplaylist of romantic songs, one I called “Stars in Your Eyes.” I made it for my sister Michelle’s wedding last year.

I look up to the picture of her and her blended family up on the wall—she and her husband each brought two daughters into their marriage, and in the picture, they all look blissful.

Michelle doesn’t think I’ve wasted my life, even though I’ve drifted so far from music it’s laughable. But Michelle’s not a thirty-six-year-old woman working in the industry that was always supposed to support her dreams, not become the mainstay. She doesn’t live in a one-bedroom apartment with a roommate who has four legs.

But she’s one of the few people who knows I still keep my old guitar, Lenny, named after Leonard Cohen, under my bed, so I can grab it and play it at any time. Not that I do. She knows I have a notebook next to my bed where I write out lines from phantom songs that’ll never get sung because I can’t sleep until I do.

Your love is better than sex...

Though I want that with you too.

Those were a couple from last night. Funny, considering what Rufus said a moment ago. The lyrics need work—Rufus the dog told me as much with the one eyebrow lift he gave me when I sang it before promptly falling back asleep. But I refuse to work on it. I don’t write songs anymore.

I scroll past, opting instead for Bob Dylan.

I let the music take over and try to focus on the lists of things to do before the film crew gets here, but I can’t focus. All I can think about is failed dreams…And Eli Dunham, somehow being responsible for that. Even though it wasn’t him who made those dreams fade. It was never him.

He was supposed to be the balm for that pain.

My phone dings, and I grab it, grateful for the distraction.

NORA: How’s show planning going?

I’m relieved to see it’s my friend Nora, the only person besides my sister who knows the full details of my history with Eli. The only one who knows how much I’m dreadingChef’s Apprenticecoming to L’Aubergine.

REESE: I can’t do it.

Three dots pop up on the screen. Nora knows exactly what I’m talking about because we just had this conversation last week over wine at my place, when I realized how soon filming was starting.

NORA: Yes, you can.

REESE: But I don’t want to do it.

NORA: You’re going to do great! And the camera loves you.

I send her a side-eye emoji.

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