Page 84 of Here's to Yesterday

And that stupid voice in my head starts spouting off long-buriedinsecurities.

But what if he’s right? What if I’m too partial to my lyrics because they’remylyrics? What if it’s all shit? What if all Iamis a pretty face or decentvoice?

Fuck.

“I write my own music,” I sayagain.

Daren sighs. “We can discuss your songs when we sign the contracts, yeah? For now, why don’t you take time to think about this and go over those other options youhave.”

He says all this like he doesn’t believe me about the songsoroptions.

What adick.

We stand and shake hands, promises of calling exchanged on both ends. Maura and I make our exit, staying quiet the during elevator ride and out the frontdoors.

Not until we’re standing defeated at the bottom of the steps, watching as a parking officer sticks a ticket under my windshield, do wespeak.

“That was kindof…”

“Bullshit,” I finish for her. “Yeah, Iagree.”

Maura lets out a frustrated huff directed toward Daren Darren. “How’d itfeel?Honestly?”

“That’s a hard one to answer. I immediately want to say wrong, but there was also a moment in the studio where it felt honest. But that was shortlived.”

She moves closer to me and links her fingers with mine. “I’m sorry, Tuck. I know how badly you wanted it all to feel like this epic homecoming, and it didn’t, but maybe Daren’s not the guy for you. We can keeplooking.”

I nod. “Yeah, maybenot.”

She tugs on my hand, pulling me toward the car. “Come on. Let’s go get a few greasy burgers and sulktogether.”

* * *

“Who’s next on your list?”

I take a long, noise-filled pull of my practically empty chocolate shake. I peer down into my glass and suck up the last of it and then immediately pout because it’s allgone.

“I don’t know,” I answer Maura. “What about that Cloverguy?”

She taps her chin with her pale blue nail a few times. “Hmm. Maybe. Think he’d let you write your ownmusic?”

I shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not. But what if Daren had a point? What if you can only be one or the other? A singer or a songwriter. What if my music isshit?”

Maura scrunches her brows and shakes her head, her smooth, pink-tipped blonde hair swinging with the movement. “You can’t believe that, Tuck. There’s no way that’s true. There are plenty of musicians out there who doboth.”

I fold my arms across my chest in an aggravated gesture and stare out the window of the small diner she dragged meto.

“But,” she says, “what if that were the case—which I’m not saying it is at all. Which would youchoose?”

Well, that’s a damn hard question to answer. Daren was correct about one thing: writing music and playing music are two different things. Writing is so personal. Playing is a bit more detached. I can, and do, play other people’s songs all day long because I have no real attachment to them. But what I can’t do is play my own stuff. There’s too much baggage attached to them, too many memories. Although I can’t perform my music yet, it doesn’t mean I don’t want to one day. A day when I’m a lot braver than I amcurrently.

I realize that I can’t decide between the two. They’re too different yet so essential to one another for me. Writing is my outlet for my emotions, and playing is how I survive themall.

“Both,” I admit in a low voice. “I’d pickboth.”

Out of my peripheral, I can see Maura’s smile. “That’s what I was hoping you’dsay.”

I turn back to her. “Yeah? Why isthat?”

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