Page 3 of Sing Your Secrets
two
Miles
“Miles, what the fresh hell is this?” Sienna, my cousin, and current savior, enters the kitchen, scowling at the breakfast I prepared. I set down the plate of scrambled eggs to join the bacon, pancakes, and waffles I set out on her kitchen island. I even carved a cantaloupe…poorly. But it’s the thought that counts.
“I could ask the same.” I look her up and down, studying the heinous brown cotton robe she’s wearing that is about three times thicker than a robe should be. “What are you wearing?”
She exhales in exasperation as she slides onto a stool next to the island. “Now that we’re roommates, you should know this is my period robe.”
I blink at her.
“As in I’m on my period.”
“I got it, Sienna,” I grumble.
“It’s a monthly occurrence.” Her smile twists cruelly as she watches me shift uncomfortably.
“How about moving forward, we share less?”
I grab a few serving spoons from the drawer farthest to the left. I learned this morning Sienna’s kitchen has four different silverware drawers. Everyday dining. Fancy. Serving cutlery. And one drawer filled with spoons and forks that look like solid gold. That one drawer could probably pay off my enormous credit card debt, my debt to my parents, and might even fund another failed demo. Unlike me, chasing dreams, Sienna was smart. She stayed in-state to finish college and married a disgustingly rich finance guy for love. He’s twelve years her senior, and I’ll admit, the entire family speculated, but they’ve been together for four years and they are still madly in love.
“You hungry?” I needlessly ask as I stuff the serving spoon into the heap of scrambled eggs. Sienna is already filling a plate I set out for her.
“As I said,” she mumbles through a mouthful, “period. Yes, I’m hungry. But”—she points the tip of her fork at me—“what I meant was, I don’t like you walking on eggshells. You don’t have to do all this just because you’re staying here.”
“What smells so good?” Lawrence asks as he joins us in the kitchen. He’s dressed for work, ready to head out the door but pulls his suit jacket off when he sees breakfast laid out buffet style.
“Good morning,” Sienna says as her husband kisses the top of her head. “Will you please tell Miles he doesn’t need to cook for us?”
He taps her nose, gently, exuding so much affection in just a small touch. “Miles, you don’t have to cook. But it’d be great if you could teach Sienna how to cook.”
She rolls her eyes. “I heat up stuff.”
Law widens his eyes at me and shakes his head behind Sienna’s. “But please, make yourself at home. You’re not a guest. You’re family.”
“That’s what I said! He slept on the couch last night. The couch. We have three empty guest rooms and he bunked on the couch. No pillow.”
“I got in late,” I protest. “I didn’t want to bother anyone upstairs.”
I called Sienna when my demo flopped...again. The record labels that responded to me told me it just wasn’t for them right now—which is the cookie-cutter response for we don’t think we can monetize you. More specifically, I don’t have enough of a social following. I need more listeners. My platform is pretty much nonexistent.
Hell, I thought that’s what a record label was supposed to do—get you exposure and sell your music. If I had to record the damn songs, perform them, and find my own listeners, what are labels for besides hogging the royalties?
I love music. I love singing. I know I have a damn good voice. But no matter how hard I work, this industry keeps taking and taking and gives nothing back.
I either love or hate myself for thinking I was different. I’m not sure at this point if I’m chasing dreams or creating my worst nightmare.
I bet the rest of the wannabe successful musicians were smart enough not to quit their day jobs. Or, to get a day job in the first place. I poured every ounce I had into this vision and what I got in return was an eviction notice from my L.A. apartment and creditors starting to call.
My last live performance in L.A. was for a piss-drunk bachelorette party that only requested Justin Bieber covers. They didn’t want to hear my songs. The grand finale was the bride-to-be pulling out her faker-than-Barbie’s tits right before puking on me. That was the night I realized I was failing. It was time to tuck my tail between my legs, move back home, and accept help.
I am damn lucky my trophy wife of a cousin and her merciful husband had pity for me and took me in. What’s more, they offered me a temporary job to recover some cash. In perfect timing, Law made an impulse commercial real estate investment. He purchased The Garage, which up until five years ago was the most revered music venue in downtown Denver. Today it’s basically a pile of rubble. The building has hosted no one outside of the occasional squatter for years.
Luckily for Law, I worked construction through high school and until I dropped out of college to move to L.A. and become an R&B star. I’m still waiting on that last part to pan out, but my construction skills remain solid.
“Law, do you have the keys to The Garage? I want to go poke around and get some measurements for the renovation.”
His chewing slows and he glances at Sienna. “Didn’t you just get in last night?”