Page 2 of Gold Horizons
I’ve heard this my entire life, and it’s fitting that it rhymes with expectation.
“Funded my life. You’re joking? You do realize how much money I made last year, right?”
“Yes, thanks to those elite private lessons our parents paid for.”
I want to argue with him, I do, but I just know after all these years there is no point. He is their puppet, and they can do no wrong in his eyes.
Then again, he’s their prize, while I’m just the second child. That phrase, “the heir and the spare,” truly fits us. The plan has always been for him to take over the family business and for me to just marry someone advantageous to the family.
“Winston, I am almost thirty years old. I make my own income, and quite frankly, I don’t owe anyone anything. Just myself. You can stand here all you want and try to lecture me, shame me, whatever you think you’re doing to get me to stay, but it won’t work. I’m going. And after this conversation with you, I can’t get out of here fast enough.”
He sighs, then places his hands on his hips and frowns at me.
What also rhymes with reputation is frustration and devastation.
I understand him. I understand them all. I do. They’ve allowed society to mold them into this lifestyle where keeping a pretentious, better-than appearance is more important than living a fulfilling life that makes them happy. They’re very successful, and they’ve acquired all this wealth, yet when I’m with them, I’m nauseated by the lack of genuineness. I’m sad for them and sad for myself. I want more for them and me, but it will never happen.
“Why do you always have to be such a problem?” he asks.
“How am I the problem here? I’ve done nothing to any of you. I stay out of your way, I purposely don’t mingle with anyone from your crowd, and I have a very successful career.”
He snorts. “Successful for now. You don’t actually think playing your little cello is a sustainable career, do you?”
Playing my little cello.
All I can do is stare at him. Has he not followed my career at all?
I know his words shouldn’t hurt—after all, what I do isn’t a hobby—but they do.
Being a child prodigy, there was no question in my parents’ eyes that my only worth was what I could do with the instrument. They never entertained any other ideas that I might be good at something or simply dreamed of something else.
Yes, during my adolescent years, I had the best tutors they could find, and for college, they sent me to Juilliard here in New York City, where I wasn’t required to leave home. I didn’t even have to audition. I was just accepted. I don’t know if that was due to them pulling strings, and by that, I mean donating money, or if my name and skill level were already known. But I went like I was supposed to, and day in and day out, my soul drowned in music theory, music history, and composition classes.
Don’t get me wrong, I love playing the cello, but I wanted to play what I wanted to, not what I was being forced to do.
A few blocks off campus is a local bar called Talents. Every night, it is wildly overrun with students from my school because that place offers an open mic night seven days a week. It’s a place where students like myself can go and express themselves. Instead of playing Elgar’s “Cello Concerto,” I could play my version of songs like “Wildest Dreams” by Taylor Swift.
It was freeing.
It was also where I met Avery and Emma. Both also attended Juilliard, but Avery played the piano and Emma the violin. The three of us formed our own version of a band known as Avery, Emma, and Cora, and we started performing together. Think classical pop music. Each of us can sing, so we performed covers and occasionally one of our own pieces.
Not long after we started playing together, we were scouted and signed with the Three Little Birds recording studio. People really liked our music, and we went from hitting top played lists on Spotify to performing sold-out shows. Famous isn’t something I ever thought I wanted to be, but regardless, that’s what we became. We’ve played in venues around the world, awards shows, and even for the president.
Of course, my family was horrified that I chose the path of “a rock star” instead of my perfectly chosen path at the New York Philharmonic, but for once in my life, I didn’t care. While I loved playing in the orchestra, a space my parents procured for me, playing with my friends outweighed the heavy disappointment I felt from home. I loved the sound and the vibe we created, and apparently, everyone else did too.
Everyone but them.
Nothing about this is a hobby. I’ve carved this career out for myself, and it isn’t going anywhere.
Adding a few more bricks around my heart, I stand directly in front of him and square off my shoulders. We are the same height, and he’s never liked that.
“Winston, what does it even matter?”
His lips turn down, and two lines strike between his eyes as he considers my question. He’s trying to touch on a subject dear to me, hoping to get me to react, but he won’t. I stopped reacting a long time ago. He just doesn’t seem to remember that about me.
It’s then the second reason for this impromptu visit comes out.
“I have someone I want you to meet.”