Page 36 of Until You Say Stay
“I had plenty of people telling me racing was a pipe dream,” I say. “Even after Robert started sponsoring me, coaches said hardly anyone makes it to Formula One. That I should focus on NASCAR or IndyCar instead.”
“What did you do?” she asks, taking a bite of her mac and cheese.
“Used it as fuel. Every time someone said I couldn’t do it, I trained harder. Though it helps when you have someone like Robert who believes in you and writes checks to prove it.” I take a bite of my burger.
“Yeah,” she says, “money always seems to be the deciding factor.” She pushes her mac and cheese around the plate. “Maybe this Tidal thing will work out. Though my mom’s still asking when I’m getting a job with benefits. They’re good people. Supportive. They just don’t think music is realistic.”
“My parents had similar concerns. They always wanted to make sure I had a backup plan,” I say. “Do you talk to yours much?”
“Yeah, they’re in Southern California now. They’re from there originally and moved back to help with my mom’s parents.” She twirls her fork in the mac and cheese. “We FaceTime every Sunday.”
“That’s nice, to stay close like that.”
“They’re great, just practical. They worked hard for stability, so me chasing music at twenty-six doesn’t compute.” She smiles. “Mom cried when I told her about the label interest. Happy tears mixed with relief that maybe it’s not just an expensive hobby.”
“Makes sense they’d want security for you,” I say, dragging another fry through ketchup.
“Yah, I understand it. Especially since my mom’s parents came here from Mexico with nothing. Built everything from scratch. So the idea that I’m choosing uncertainty when I could have a steady job?” She shakes her head.
I watch her for a moment, the afternoon light catching her hair. “Can I ask you something?”
“Seems fair since you’ve been pretty open. Go for it.”
“What happened with performing?” I ask. “You said you loved it as a kid, then it all changed?”
She shrugs. “Before Brandon, I loved it. I still had pretty bad nerves, but I could push through. And when we first got together, heactedkinda supportive.”
“What changed?”
“Started with subtle comments. How I was being ‘unrealistic,’ needed to ‘think about the future.’ Then it escalated. My voice was too shaky. My lyrics too personal. My stage presence was awkward.”
I clench a fist under the table. How the fuck did Brandon even get Lark? She’s so far out of his league it’s laughable. And then he spent their entire marriage making her feel small? “Sounds like he was deliberately trying to tear you down.”
“Exactly,” she says, meeting my eyes. “And the worst part is, it worked. I started second-guessing everything about myself. By the end of our marriage, I’d almost stopped playing music altogether. Just worked at the bar and came home.”
“What a complete asshole,” I say, not bothering to hide my anger.
She takes a sip of water. “The night I finally decided to leave, we had this massive fight because I’d told him I wanted to record some of my songs professionally. Nothing fancy, just book time at a small studio in Seattle.”
“What happened?” I ask, though I have a sinking feeling I know.
“He laughed. Said, ‘Lark, be serious. You’re a bartender who likes to sing. Let’s not pretend it’s more than that.’” The hurt’s still raw in her voice. “Something broke inside me. I realized I’dspent years with someone who fundamentally didn’t believe in me.”
“I’m glad you left him,” I say, resisting the strong urge to reach across the table and take her hand. No cameras here though, it wouldn’t be appropriate for our arrangement. “He was dead fucking wrong, about all of it.”
“I hope so,” she says. “But even now, almost two years later, I still hear his voice sometimes when I’m about to perform. I still feel myself freezing up. I’m mad at myself for letting him get to me still, for letting him have that power over me.”
“Emotional shit sticks around,” I say. “It just means you’re human and he was an effective manipulator.”
“I guess,” she says, picking up her fork again. “The fake dating thing is helping though, weirdly enough. Seeing my follower count go up, getting that excited email from the label… it’s like proof that he was wrong. Though I guess we’ll really find out at the open mic in a few days.” She fiddles with her fork.
This time I can’t fight the impulse and I do reach across and take her hand. She looks up in surprise. “You’re going to do great. I mean it. You have real talent, Lark. And if it doesn’t go exactly how you want, I’ll personally kick anyone’s ass who makes you feel like shit about it.”
She smiles, studying me for a long moment. “You know, you’re not what I expected, Jack.”
“Is that good or bad?” I ask.
“Still deciding,” she says with a teasing smile. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”
