Page 64 of Ambiguous
Best to let sleeping fake relationships lie, so to speak.
I smile and get my picture taken one more time.
* * *
The following evening, I recline on a low couch in Jules’s studio, watching him close his eyes and belt out a new song. Earlier, I tried accompanying him on the piano but gave that up fast. Now I’m just enjoying the performance. He’s giving it his all, like he has a full audience.
But his audience consists of one person: me.
I must be the luckiest man in the world, to receive a private concert by one of the best singers on the planet.
Have you ever sat close to a singer and watched them let loose? His voice makes my arms and spine tingle and my eyes tear up. It’s got a depth and resonance, like complex wine or epic poetry, and like anything beautiful, it forces you toexperienceit. Knowing his eyes are closed, I quickly swipe at mine with the backs of my hands.
As I listen, I’m trying not to read too much into the lyrics, because it’s a love song… and if I’m his muse, what does it mean?
Somethingunnerving. Something that makes me simultaneously excited and panicked.
And maybe like I’ve finally found what I’ve been looking for my entire life: meaning. Julian makes me slow down and pay attention to things I usually gloss over. Life seems richer when he’s around, like there’s more to it than work and yoga.
Like there’s a reason for the things we do and relationships we have.
Emily would tease me if she knew, since I’ve been such a cynic about love since Asa. While I’m not ready to go draw hearts on the margins of my school papers, I dunno. I feel it. Ifeelwhat Jules is trying to convey.
Maybe emotions matter more than I’ve let them.
He runs a hand through his dark hair, and his throat strains as he closes his eyes and hits a high note. It makes me shiver even more, and I’m having trouble keeping it together.
When he finishes, I clap, and he gives me a sheepish grin. “That’s beautiful,” I say, after gulping and taking a deep breath. “I think you’ve really got something there.” My words feel insufficient to express the feeling of utter love he conveyed—and I experienced—as he sang.
“Thanks.” His eyes cut to the side, and my dopamine evaporates.
I feel… alone again.
Maybe emotional manipulation is the name of the game with music. After three minutes of him embodying and projecting deep feelings, once the song is done, we go back to our lives, unaffected until we listen to it again.
But I don’t think that’s it. Things feel off tonight. Instead of talking with me, Julian steps back, setting his guitar down and reaching for a bottle of water from his little refrigerator.
I can’t pinpoint why he’s acting this way.
“I’m going to have to give you writing credit,” he says amiably after he takes a swig of water.
That makes me smile. “No, you aren’t. I haven’t written a thing. I’m just sitting here looking pretty.”
Now his grin matches mine. “You very much are looking pretty.”
Then he frowns, leaving a weird pit in my stomach again.
To move past his mood swings—he’s been like this all evening—I note, “It seems like you’ve made major progress. I’ll be sure to keep Lighthouse informed. Got anything else?”
“A few ideas, yeah.” A brief smile, and then his face shutters. Once more he’s thrown a blanket over himself, dampening the emotions he just expressed so beautifully. Two steps forward and one step back. Or maybe it’s one step forward and two steps back.
Worse, he picks up his cell and starts scrolling, dicking around on it, which is something he’sneverdone around me. Normally, his phone is barely in sight when we’re together, unless he’s showing me an article or video or jotting down song ideas. Maybe I’m spoiled, but I’ve liked the attention he showers on me.
Am I just a brat, or is something going on?
I have to know. I scrub my hand over my face, my emotions all jangly from his song and watching him come forward and retreat, again and again.
“Why are you acting this way?” I blurt, with zero finesse.
