Page 66 of Sing Your Secrets
I don’t want to end up like her.
Red-eyed. Dog-tired. Barely present. Dad might’ve been drunk for most of my life, but he was a happy drunk who liked for me to pal around. Mom was drunk off ambition. She was always gone. Between studying her ass off in law school, and then hustling her way up to lead council at her corporation, she was never there. Mom’s whole life could be a sales pitch—Knocked-up at eighteen? Don’t worry! It’s not over! You can still have a life and become a very successful, powerful corporate lawyer. The teeny-tiny fine print is you’ll alienate your family and get your first gray hair at thirty-four.
But of course, I’m not going to blurt that out to my mother. She annoys the shit out of me, but I love her. I don’t want to see her blue puppy-dog eyes hurt. I can be direct with everyone else on this planet except her. Maybe because I don’t have her approval.
But I still want it.
“I’ll think about it, Mom. Right now, I don’t have time to take on tutoring. But you know what? As a paralegal, I’m learning a lot of things hands-on. Maybe it’ll help some of the legal concepts, jargon, and mentality just,” I tap my temples with both forefingers, “permeate. You know?”
Her smile is rightfully skeptical. She recognizes a blow-off. I’ve been doing it to her for years. “Okay, well when you’re ready.” She pops another bite of chicken in her mouth. Covering her mouth, she mumbles between chewing, “And also when you’re ready, my stylist does a nice Keratin treatment…if you ever want to get your hair under control—”
“Mom!” I stab my fork into my chicken leg with unnecessary aggression.
* * *
“I don’t see it,” Dad says as he searches his email for Miles’s music.
“It’s a forward, with attachments. I bet it went to your spam folder.”
“Ah,” he says, “here it is. It’s better to send these as private links by the way. I’m willing to bet if Miles is sending attachments to record labels, they aren’t looking at them.”
“Noted. I’ll tell him that.”
Dad holds up his finger and then pulls on his huge, clunky, plug-in studio headphones that make him look like he’s going to help guide a landing plane. They look goofy, but damn—the sound is unrivaled. He’s used the same brand for over a decade, now. I have an equally ugly pair in pink.
Satisfied when Dad starts bobbing his head to the music, I look around the basement and notice there’s new furniture here too. There are two black leather sofa chairs and a matching loveseat surrounding a glass coffee table. He even got a patterned area rug to complete a quaint sitting area. On his production desk, I notice a new MIDI keyboard and a fancy-looking mixer. Dad really isn’t one for a shopping spree…unless it’s at a liquor outlet.
I plop down on one of the comfy leather chairs when Dad shoos me away, annoyed at my invasive stare. I can’t help it, I want him to see Miles the way I do—so much talent and a really good heart. I debate whipping out my phone and texting him, but in case this doesn’t go the way I planned, I don’t want to make him nervous. I’ve either found a way to reinspire Miles’s music career, or I’ve found a way to crush his spirit even more. Dad won’t work with just anyone. He has ridiculously high standards and does not like musicians who refuse to put the work in or take a heavy dose of constructive criticism.
When Dad takes off his headphones and joins me in the sitting area, I try to play it cool.
“So, this is all new,” I say, nodding at the new pieces of furniture and then over his shoulder at his new sound equipment.
“This,” Dad says tapping on the coffee table, “is all your mother.” He follows my gaze over his shoulder. “All that is for getting back to serious work. I have a vocal booth coming in next week.”
My eyes pop in surprise. “You’re kidding me. What are those running these days?”
“A few grand, but the one I got set me back a bit more. Top of the line.”
“Damn. Did you win the lottery in jail?”
Dad snorts. “My royalties are still coming in from albums I produced back in the day, and the one benefit to being locked up is you can’t waste your money on bullshit.”
“Well, I guess incarceration wasn’t a total waste of your time, then.” I press my lips together and form a sarcastic smile.
“Smart mouth.” He flicks the air in my direction.
“Anyway, why is Mom picking out your furniture?”
“Yeah…” He runs his hands through his thick, wavy hair. “About that. We need to talk...”
“Ew, Dad. Since when we do say ‘we need to talk’ to each other?” I get my directness from Dad, I’m not sure why he’s tiptoeing around now. “Just spit it out.”
“Fine. Your mother’s moving in. We’re happy. I wouldn’t be surprised if we got married before we die.”
Oh. Leaning back into my seat, I cross my arms as the leather crunches underneath me. He raises his eyebrows expectantly at me. “What?” I shrug my shoulders, attempting to seem nonchalant. “Are you expecting me to throw a tantrum or something?”
“Do you want to?”