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  I wasn’t sure if my time at therapy was helping or not, but for once in my life I had someone I could discuss my problems and my twisted history with. I could talk freely because it was confidential and Dr. Angelini wasn’t a friend – she was just doing her job. I didn’t burden her and she didn’t judge me.

  And while I was dreading getting up on a stage and singing in front of a crowd, I knew Dr. Angelini wouldn’t have recommended doing it unless it served a real purpose. Shockingly, I trusted her.

  Our discussion of relationships had me thinking about sex as I drove home from my appointment. It had been months since my last random hookup, far longer than I typically lasted between boy-binges. Sex was the ultimate mind-numbing escape, reserved for situations where tequila alone couldn't block out my emotions.

  I couldn't help but wonder if my sudden prudish tendencies had something to do with a certain new male friend, who sang like an angel and told jokes any five year old could top. I dismissed that unwelcome thought, pulled into a nearby liquor store parking lot, and began making plans for a much-needed Friday night out with Lexi.

  ***

  “Lex?” I called, walking into our apartment and dumping two grocery bags full of ingredients onto the kitchen island. I could hear music thumping from her speakers, an auto-tuned pop track I’d never heard before. Lexi and I didn’t exactly share the same taste in artists.

  She emerged from her room, hips gyrating in time to the beat as she crooned the lyrics into a hairbrush.

  “Could you be any more cliché?” I asked, giggling at her as I removed several bottles of tequila, margarita mix, and two fresh limes from the grocery bags.

  “Margarita night?” Lexi squealed, dropping her pseudo-microphone and pulling the blender down from a cabinet.

  “Yeah, I was thinking we could head over to The Blue Note in a little bit.”

  “The karaoke bar?” Lexi asked, her nose wrinkling in confusion. “But you don’t ever want to go there.”

  “I thought we could change it up tonight, try somewhere new.”

  “Works for me,” Lexi said, always agreeable to a night of debauchery. She was firing up the blender with our first round of margaritas in two minutes flat.

  After a brief cheers, I left the kitchen and headed into my room to prepare for the night. Picking an outfit was the least of my worries; I somehow had to convince myself that singing onstage in front of a crowd of random strangers wasn’t going to be a total train wreck. Sipping my margarita, I hoped a bit of liquid courage would keep me from backing out at the last minute.

  Finn’s jacket still hung on the hook by my closet – he must’ve left it here after the night of the flower delivery. Before I could talk myself out of it, I crossed the room, grasped the supple leather in my hands, and held it up against my face. Inhaling, I could detect the faintest aroma of falling leaves and crisp apples – that uniquely autumnal, masculine scent Finn seemed to carry everywhere he went. Ignoring the pang in my chest, I dropped the jacket onto my bedspread and scolded myself for acting like such a girl.

  The truth was, I missed him. I’d gotten used to him being around, and not seeing him for over a week was a slow form of torture. I wouldn’t seek him out, though. It wasn’t in my nature to chase after anyone’s affection.

  After changing into a sparkly fitted grey blouse, dark skinny jeans, and a pair of black high-heeled leather boots, I pulled my guitar from a long-neglected back corner of my closet. It was out of tune; it had been months since I’d last played.

  After making some adjustments, I strummed a few chords experimentally. For an old guitar, it had a nice sound. I smiled as I began to play the opening melody of one of my favorite songs, singing under my breath as I reached the chorus. Enthusiastic applause greeted me as soon as I trailed off; Lexi was standing in my doorway, watching with rapt attention.

  “Does this mean you’re going to play tonight?” She squealed, clearly excited by the prospect.

  “I was thinking about it.” I didn’t mention Dr. Angelini’s assignment, as that would’ve required me to tell Lexi that I was seeing a psychiatrist.

  “Ohmigod! Brooklyn, I don’t know what inspired this but I’m so happy you’re going to play! I’ve been telling you for years, you could be a professional with pipes like yours.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said, strumming softly. “My mom was a singer, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know,” Lexi sighed. “But that’s because you never talk about her. I wish you would.”

  That had my attention. “You do?” I asked, surprised.

  “Of course I do, Brooklyn. You’re my best friend.” She walked over to sit beside me on the bed. “I know I can be selfish, believe me. But I also know that my self-absorption is the only reason you’ve let me stick around this long. I figured out a long time ago that if I pushed you, I’d lose you.” Her eyes filled with tears as she looked at me. “And I can’t lose you, Brookie. But sometimes I wish you’d let me – or anyone – in, because you can’t keep it all locked up inside forever. Nobody’s that strong.”

  I was shocked speechless. I wanted to shake myself for being so blind. Lexi wasn’t ignorant, self-obsessed, or totally uninterested in me. In fact, she’d figured me out long ago, understood how I functioned, and decided to stick around anyway. For the first time in years, I felt the telltale signs of tears prickling at my eyes. Placing my guitar next to me on the bed, I reached over and pulled Lexi into a hug.

  “I’m kind of an idiot, huh?” I asked her after a few minutes.

  “It’s okay. I’m kind of a vapid narcissist. So it all evens out in the end,” she giggled through her tears. “Great, now I’m going to have to completely redo my makeup! If you have any more sentimental bullshit to unload, now is the time. I refuse to redo it again after this.” Lexi winked at me as she hurried out of my room, no doubt headed for the numerous beauty products littering her vanity.

  I rolled my eyes and felt a smile spread across my face. I had a best friend who actually gave a shit about me. And I was ready to kick some musical ass.

  ***

  By the time Lexi and I walked into The Blue Note, open mic night was well under way. A boy wearing a dark fur vest and white leather pants wailed into the microphone on stage, accompanied by a willowy girl with shoulder-length dreadlocks who occasionally beat her tambourine in time with the chorus. I immediately felt like I’d been transported back to the 1970s; it was painful to watch.

  Lexi stifled a giggle as we sat down at a small round table near the back of the room. I settled my guitar case on the ground by my feet and surveyed the club. It was dark in the audience, the only light cast by flickering jar-candles that had been placed on each tabletop. Dim halogen lamps illuminated the stage, creating a halo around a solitary stool and microphone stand.

  Lexi headed to the bar to grab our drinks while I staked out our table; more people poured in through the front door with each passing minute, and the seating was limited. The club may have felt intimate, but was bigger than it had appeared at first glance. There were probably close to a hundred people scattered around the different booths and standing at the bar.

  Watching as the room quickly filled, I began to reconsider coming here. Maybe performing wasn’t such a good idea after all. I could always try a coffee shop or – what had Dr. Angelini’s other suggestion been? Oh, right. A street corner.

  Lexi arrived back at our table just as the next act stepped up on stage. A girl dressed in all black, covered in tattoos, and flaunting multiple facial piercings approached the mic. It was no great surprise when she began screaming out the lyrics to an angst-ridden Alanis Morissette song.

  Sipping the lemon drop martini Lexi had gotten for me, I decided this wasn’t the right venue for my debut. I wasn’t nearly angry enough at the world to fit in amongst these performers. Nor did I have a fur vest or dreadlocks.

  “Guess what?” Lexi exclaimed, a huge grin spreading across her face.

  Oh shit. I kne
w that look. I felt a leaden weight drop into the pit of my stomach, dread mounting in anticipation of whatever she was about to tell me.

  “What did you do?”

  “While I was up getting our drinks, I may or may not have signed you up to perform! Isn’t that great?” She was giggling uncontrollably at this point, no doubt amused by the murderous expression thundering across my face.

  “Lexi! Why would you do that to me?” I whined.

  “Because I knew you were about two seconds from bailing as soon as we walked in and saw Sonny and Cher up there—” she nodded in the direction of the hippie couple who’d just left the stage, “—reliving their seventies glory.”

  I didn’t respond; I hated when she was right.

  Thankfully, several more acts were called to the stage before my name was announced, giving me time to gulp down my martini and slightly calm my ragged nerves.

  “Let’s give it up for Brooklyn, everybody!” The MC was a blur as I walked to the stage and settled onto the stool, holding my guitar to my chest like a lifeline. My feet didn’t quite reach the ground, so I propped them up on the bottom rung. Lowering the microphone stand so it was level with my face, I looked out at the crowd. The dark room was a blessing; I couldn’t see anyone’s faces. It would almost be like I was back in my room, playing alone.

  Almost.

  “Hey, you guys, I’m Brooklyn. I’ve never done this before, so cut me some slack, okay?” There were some appreciative chuckles from the audience, helping to put me at ease. “I’m going to sing one of my favorite songs for you tonight. This is Blackbird by The Beatles.”

  I strummed the opening chords easily. I’d been playing this song for so many years it was ingrained in my soul, a melody my fingers had memorized long ago. And though I had the upmost respect for The Beatles, I couldn’t help putting my own spin on the song.

  I’d slowed it down to fit the acoustic atmosphere, raised it up an octave, and tried my damnedest to infuse my voice with all the emotions that the lyrics conveyed. Hope, sadness, love, rebirth: this song embodied them all.

  The crowd faded away as I sang about learning to fly with broken wings, losing myself to the music. Of all the songs in the world, I’d always felt that this one fit me best. The lyrics gave me hope that maybe I wasn’t the only one who’d been shattered by death and loss and sorrow. That maybe everyone’s a little bit broken inside.

  As a little girl, I remember watching Peter Pan one night with all the other foster kids in the group home. The other children, most of whom were to old to be entertained by Disney, were making fun of the movie or ignoring it altogether. I alone sat quietly, transfixed by the scene where Peter chases his shadow around the room and tries to wrestle it back into compliance before Wendy finally sews the damned thing to his shoe. That scene had always resonated strangely with me, and after a time, I’d come to see my grief as a sort of disobedient shadow. I’d dragged a wraith of misery around for fourteen years and damned if it didn’t kick and scream the whole time, refusing to be ignored.

  I was tired, so tired, of fighting my shadow every minute of the day. My grief had become a living entity, personified by years of self-blame and incarnated by my refusal to confront it. Like Peter, I’d chased my specter for years and repeatedly forced it into submission in a never-ending battle of wills. Too often, though, the grief broke free – and I broke down.

  Singing on that stage, I wouldn’t say I felt my mother’s presence, or saw her spirit or anything ridiculous like that. It was more like a surge of warmth filled my veins and made my heart expand – like a moment of clarity as I realized she’d be proud to hear me carrying on her legacy.

  It was closure.

  I felt like I’d been drowning in my grief for years and hadn’t even realized it. Like I’d been gasping for breath for so long I’d become accustomed to barely breathing at all. And now, I’d been thrown a life-ring and hauled ashore and given a chance to live again. I imagined my grief, that phantom of perpetual misery, finally settling inside my heart. It no longer tugged at its tether, or rattled the bars of its cage – it simply took a deep breath of acceptance as it dissipated into me and finally, finally gave up the fight.

  I smiled as I gave myself over to the feeling, completely surrendering to the music as it flowed from my lips and fingertips. I heard my mother’s voice in my head.

  There’s a song for every feeling, Bee. Every tear, every smile, every heartbreak and every victory. Music ignites the soul and strips us bare. It’s our very essence. Even if you have no one else to turn to and you feel all alone, remember that you can always find comfort in ballads and melodies, serenades and love songs.

  I knew my shadow would never fully leave me – that’s not how grief worked. What had happened to me as a little girl had changed me, altered me on a chemical level, forged me into the woman I was becoming. But maybe it wouldn’t fight me so damn hard from now on. Maybe it would take up residence inside my soul – a scarred, clouded part of my essence – and let me breathe unhindered.

  Strumming the last note, I opened my eyes, growing nervous as I took in the utterly silent crowd.

  Was I that bad? Jeeze, I didn’t even get a sympathy clap.

  Then, to my utter surprise, I saw people getting to their feet and applauding wildly. Catcalls sounded from the bar area and I thought I heard Lexi screaming from somewhere in the back, but it was hard to tell over the rest of the cheers. Grinning, I hopped down from my perch on the stool, slung my guitar over one shoulder and waved to my new fans.

  “Thanks, guys!” I called, walking off the stage to make way for the next performer. As I stepped back into the crowd to head for my table, I was immediately engulfed by a swarm of people eager to congratulate me on my performance. I laughed when several asked me where I performed locally, as they were eager to catch my next show.

  I eventually made my way back to Lexi, who was jumping up and down in excitement. Squeezing me so tight I could barely breathe, she screamed in my ear.

  “You were freaking amazing! Oh my god, Brooklyn. You could’ve heard a pin drop in here during your performance and I swear I saw a few people crying. You’re a rock star!” she exclaimed. Releasing me, she turned to face the people seated in the audience around us. “MY BEST FRIEND IS A FREAKING ROCK STAR!” She screamed at the top of her lungs, entirely too loudly for such a relaxed venue. I smacked her on the arm.

  “Quit it, Lex! You’re embarrassing me. Not to mention yourself,” I laughed.

  “I’m declaring myself your official musical agent,” she said, eyes distant with thoughts of our future fame and glory.

  “Lexi, don’t you think you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself? You do realize that I’m still going to become a lawyer, right?”

  Lexi snorted, grumbling under her breath about wasted talent and missed opportunities. Oh well. Singing had always been just a hobby and though it recently may have become a therapeutic outlet, I doubted it would ever transition into a path to stardom. As exhilarating and enlightening as my performance had been, I didn’t see it going anywhere professionally.

  A familiar, deep voice rasped into the microphone, immediately catching my attention. Butterflies erupted in my stomach as my eyes drank in the sight of the beautiful dark haired man sitting on the stool I’d just vacated. His eyes scanned the room restlessly, as if seeking someone particular in the dark crowd.

  “Well, I don’t think I’m going to be able to top that last performance—” Did he mean mine? “—but I’ll do my best. This song is dedicated to a friend I worried I’d lost for good. For a long time I thought it was impossible that this person might still exist out there,” he paused, clearing his throat and running a hand through his hair – a sure sign he was nervous. “But I’m happy to say that sometimes we get second chances in this crazy life. Sometimes the things we lose are returned to us. Sometimes, we’re lucky. So, yeah, enough of my bullshit ramblings. This is The Scientist by Coldplay.”

  Finn’s voice was hau
ntingly beautiful as he sang along with his acoustic guitar. He’d never looked more attractive, but I could tell by just a glance that something was wrong. There were circles under his eyes dark enough to rival mine before my daily Sephora-intervention; it was clear he hadn’t been sleeping. He looked utterly worn out and it set me on edge immediately.

  As the lyrics washed over me, I wondered about his strange song dedication. Who was he talking about? It was probably irrational for me to feel jealous, considering there was nothing remotely romantic between Finn and I. He’d made it clear on more that one occasion that he was strictly my friend and, with the exception of a drunken near-kiss in the bathroom at Styx, he’d never even implied that he found me attractive.

  The man-whore doesn’t even want you. Talk about an ego-bruiser.

  I wasn’t too proud to admit that his lack of attention over the past week had stung. I hadn’t heard from him at all, and I couldn’t help but be reminded of the way I’d avoided him at the beginning of the semester. Oh, how the tables had turned. How the mighty had fallen. How many more clichés can I use in a row?

  I was getting a taste of my own medicine – okay, that was the last one, I promise – and, unfortunately for me, it was the disgusting store-brand, grape flavored liquid cough syrup my foster mom used to shove down our throats when we couldn’t sleep at night.

  It was obvious that Finn had chosen this song, one that cried out for redemption and second chances, purposefully. It was equally unobvious why he’d chosen it. The lyrics were clearly an apology, a plea for someone’s forgiveness – and I was near-desperate to figure out whose. Somewhere along the line, he’d started to matter to me.

  Evidently, the feeling was not mutual.

  But he’d been there for me last week after my breakdown. Granted, his jokes were so pathetic they could barely be considered consolatory. Still, if he needed someone to talk to, I would try not to be a coldhearted bitch for at least five minutes and offer him some comfort. I would be his friend.

  As soon as he stepped off the stage, women with too much makeup and too few clothes surrounded him. They reminded me of the seagulls that would swarm any flyaway scrap of food on the California beaches my mother had so often taken me to as a child. She’d called them rats-with-wings, laughing as she’d tossed yet another potato chip into the sky to increase their rabid fervor. Come to think of it, Finn could probably throw a dirty sock into this swarm of girls and they’d kill each other in the animalistic race to win it.