“But … I hurt you so bad.”
“You’re human, Kall. You bottle it up and keep stuffing all your own problems down until it blows. It blew up that night. I’ve been thinking about everything, and you’re just as confused as I am about why it happened. I think I have a solution.”
I smile. A real smile that I let Nate see and feel. “How?”
“Come to me. I want to know. Everything you need to say or do. Just please don’t push me away again, because I’d rather be here for all the ugly and painful inside you, than pretend what we have is nothing, because that is pure torture.”
I take his hand over the table and lace my fingers through his. All I’m seeing is Nate. It’s only when the waitress drops off our coffees do I remember we’re at Pancake Parlour with all this noise that hasn’t existed for these last ten minutes.
I was trying too hard to force a conversation before. And now, it’s natural.
“I don’t want you to think I’m afraid,” I say. “Of you, or anything in life.”
His eyebrows pinch together. “What do you mean?”
“I was afraid of myself before, my fears, never you. You’ve always made me feel safe, appreciated, and now … so much more.”
“I had bad news planned to say if you wanted to leave me again,” Nate says, dropping his chin.
“How did you think it’d turn out?”
He looks up, and squeezes my hand as he says, “Like this.”
“But I haven’t really answered you yet.”
“You did. You just can’t see what I see.”
When he turns over his fingers and mine, I can’t pull away. The only way I can unweave myself from him is if he or an external force separates me. A thought comes to mind and without thinking, I say, “You own part of me now.”
He turns my hand over in his palm. Squeezes. “You too.”
24
With Mum in therapy, I’m looking after the twins this afternoon. They have emptied out their storage bucket of blocks. They are mostly strewn over the rug, the best ones in a pile between them as they start building a structure. Knowing they’re busy, I sit my laptop in my lap and catch up on social media and emails.
And wow.
In the craziness of my recent life, it seems the internet stops for no nineteen-year-old. Facebook has 99+ notifications, I have countless tweets and messages, and a tonne of emails.
I start scrolling through the emails. There’s this, that. Spam, subscription newsletters, deals and such. Some from real people.
Then I see the two emails from Geoffrey at Summertym Entertainment.
The first one reads:
From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Subject: Interest in meeting regarding Saturday concert
Hi Kallisto,
I wanted to congratulate you, on behalf of myself and the acquisitions team at Summertym Entertainment. I love discovering new talent and, after seeing both your performances on Saturday (the Bach piece and your original composition), I would love to organise a meeting to discuss your interest in potential involvement with us in the future.
While Summertym Entertainment records many pop and R&B artists, in the last five years we’ve expanded focus to our Feel It label which solely records artists such as stage performers like yourself. We’re looking to bring a modern, conversational edge, and your young image and deeply moving talent is exactly what our director wants.
My telephone is attached under my signatory, so please do call if you want. Otherwise, I’m available by email.
Looking forward to discussing further!
Regards, Geoffrey
My mouth is suddenly dry, but grabbing a drink is far from my mind. I blink and my screen is still there.
Not trusting myself, since my senses are on alert, buzzing, I have to read through the email again. This wouldn’t be a prank, right? Why would someone go to the effort of creating such a realistic email address and type so formally, have every detail perfect? Spam is always written in broken English.
OMG, this might be real.
Sitting on the couch, reading from my laptop, the computer bounces in my lap wildly as my legs jitter. Looking back to my screen, it’s still there. Really there. This guy is serious. Then, as it sinks in, my hands start shaking and I wonder.
What if he signs me? What if I get a single or an album?
And then—
I scroll to the top of the email and check the date. He sent it the Monday after the performance: eleven days ago.
I missed the best opportunity of my life.
During my aftermath of panic, I realise I still have his second email to go through. If I lost my mind reading his first email, I’m a bundle of dread seeing the second one. I can’t think of a worse outcome than him extremely excited to sign me—me! a nobody!—to him politely withdrawing his offer because of my MIA stance.