Page 140 of The Oscar Escape
Her questions piled up in layer upon layer of agony.
“Do you want to know how Oscar’s doing?”
“No,” she lied as the streetlights lining the road that snaked through the cemetery grounds turned on. They were losing light by the second, and she welcomed the darkness. It would hide the tears in her eyes.
“I assume you’re here to figure out what you’re supposed to do,” her uncle offered.
She huffed a little laugh. “My parents aren’t talking. Any chance you’re doling out answers? Did you bring a crystal ball with you?”
Landon didn’t reply. Damn the guy for knowing when to ignore her mouth and give her space to talk.
She hugged her notebook to her chest. “I was supposed to be at my sound check hours ago. Instead, I drove around until I heard a Heartthrob Warfare song blasting on some car’s radio. I thought it was a sign. I thought if I came here and played the violin for them, I’d figure out what to do with my life. I talked with the wine-spritzer widows. It was the same widow I played for years ago when I made Aunt Harper bring me here to play the Paganini piece for Mom and Dad. Do you remember when we told you about how I got into trouble in music class, then came here?”
“I remember making one hell of a huge donation to the school so they wouldn’t throw you out.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Of course, I remember,” he added, softening his tone. “Your aunt couldn’t stop talking about your touching performance at the burial.”
“I thought I knew what to do after talking with the widows. I love Oscar. I want to be with him. But I’m so confused. I don’t want to disappoint Mom and Dad. I don’t want them to think that—”
“That Aria Paige-Grant is desperate to win the world’s approval but doesn’t have the chops to do anything more than sound like a cardboard version of her musical family,” the man rattled off.
She paced in front of her parents’ resting place. “Justin wrote that to keep me off his back, then leaked it to the press.”
Her uncle pegged her with his gaze. “Then you know it’s bullshit.”
“What if it’s not bullshit?”
“What do you mean?”
She stilled and tightened her hold on her notebook. “I do want the world’s approval, and, if I’m being totally honest, I have crafted my sound to be like Heartthrob Warfare and Aunt Harper’s music. I thought that was what the world wanted. It’s certainly what the label pushed me to do. Justin’s words stung because they hit close to home. His leaked review might have been the cruelest rendition of the sentiment, but I can’t deny that his words echoed what other critics have written about me. What do you think my parents would say about their daughter being seen as an imposter, a poser, and a copycat?”
“You’re none of those things, Aria. Even if you performed Heartthrob Warfare’s songs word for word, you’d add your own take to the music. And I know exactly how your parents would have reacted to the critics.”
“You do?”
A grin tinged with wistfulness graced the man’s lips. “Your mom would have fired off a line of expletives about Justin that would have made a sailor blush.”
Aria couldn’t help but smile.
“And your dad would have agreed with her in his gentle, even-keeled way. Then, after your mom cooled off and got her hands on some candy or bonbons—she was a lot like you and your aunt Harper in that regard—your mom and dad would have sat you down and told you to forget about the critics because you don’t need them. You’ll walk your own path when it comes to your music. That path will always be uniquely you.”
Aria shook her head. Her uncle was wrong. “But I need the critics. I need their approval to maintain our family’s legacy. We’re rock stars. We break records. We fill stadiums.”
“You’re wrong again.”
“How am I wrong?” she demanded, her emotions running hot.
“When I think of your mom and dad, I don’t think of them as rock stars. Music was a part of their lives, but what mattered the most to them was you.”
He didn’t get it. He just didn’t get it.
She gave him back his jacket, suddenly burning up. “And that’s why I can’t fail. Why I need to uphold the Paige-Grant legacy.”
He folded the coat over his arm and nodded as if he were mulling over her charged words. “I agree. There is a legacy to uphold.”
“Then you get it. Jesus, finally,” she huffed, sliding into eat-worms territory.
“But it’s not a legacy adorned with breaking records or selling out stadiums,” he added.
She sank onto the bench. “Then how do you judge success?”
