Page 18 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me
“Just say it,” he said finally. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I thought I knew the problem and wanted to help but wasn’t sure how to do that without hurting his feelings more than I already had. Nevertheless, I took a stab at it.
“You just need to be honest. With your music. With your songwriting,” I clarified. “It just feels like…”
I cast around for a good example. “Okay, whenever you do a cover song, everyone in the room can feel it, you know? The longing, the passion, the joy, the sorrow. You evoke so many emotions with your voice and just…I don’t know, it’s like youarethe music. You’re such an incredible performer, you really are…”
He exhaled loudly. “Get to the point.”
Fine. He asked for it. “Something is missing from the new music you tried out last week. The lyrics don’t even sound like you. There’s no passion?—"
“You think it sounds too commercial. Too formulaic.”
“No. I didn’t say that. Your music and your voice are unique. You don’t sound like anything coming out of Seattle. Your music isn’t pop or formulaic. It’s organic. Profound. And you usually put everything into it.” I stopped and took a breath. “But with the new songs it felt like you were playing it safe. I got the feeling that you don’t really believe in them.”
There. It was out.
He rolled out his shoulders and worked his jaw, clenching and unclenching it. Then he stared at me for a moment, eyes narrowed in thought before turning on his heel and stalking to the door.
I brushed past him, wishing I’d kept my big mouth shut.
When we found our seats, metal folding chairs that scraped against the concrete as we settled in, I took a few deep breaths and tried to let it go.
We weren’t speaking but he was sittingrightnext to me so I could still feel him. His restless energy. The tension radiating off him in waves. His knee kept bouncing and his hair stuck up all over from running his fingers through it.
He smelled faintly of sandalwood and incense. Woodsy. Warm spice.The musky scent of a boy.
I grabbed the bouquet before the flowers withered and died from his bad vibes. He shot me an accusing glare but said nothing.
After a few minutes of excruciating silence, I exhaled loudly. “You asked me to be honest and I was. So you can’t be all pissed off?—”
“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot be,” he bit out. “And I’m not pissed off.”
“Yeah, okay.” I snorted. “So that’s why you’re giving me the silent treatment.”
“Hey, I have an idea.” He snapped his fingers. “How about we critique your art and see how you react? You want honesty, Cleo? Stop being a fucking chicken and put your work out there.”
I wanted to argue that it wasn’t the same. Unlike him and Annika, I wasn’t a performance artist. Just a hypocrite, I guess.
“You were right.” He rolled out his neck and massaged the side that was to me, like he was trying to work a kink out of it. “The new music is shit.”
“I didn’t say it was shit.”
“It was heavily implied.”
“It’s justoneopinion!”
A woman sitting in front of us turned around and shot me an evil glare. The performance hadn’t even started yet so I ignored her.
“Why do you even care what I think?”
“For some reason, your opinion matters to me,” he said under his breath.
Oh. Okay. This is where honesty gets you. Time for a truth bomb, I guess. “I only said it because I know you’re capable of so much more.”
Our eyes met and I counted my heartbeats. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three heartbeats. Four. “I feel the same about you,” he said finally.
One skipped heartbeat and we were off to the races. I stared at him for a moment before facing forward with my pulse racing and my heart beating triple time.
