My Cone and Only (King Family #1) - Susannah Nix Page 0,29
it. You could afford a lot of things.”
“Yeah,” I agreed reluctantly. He wasn’t wrong. It was something I’d thought about before. A lot of times. But especially since the conversation with my dad yesterday.
“But?” he prompted when I didn’t say anything else.
I looked down at the blue cotton placemat, tracing the ring of moisture that had darkened the fabric around my glass. “But if I took on more work and expanded my business, then that would be who I am. My career. My life.”
“Would that be bad?” His voice was carefully neutral. Trying not to sound judgmental. But I was more than capable of filling the judgment in for myself.
“I don’t know.” My hand clenched around my glass as I let out a gusty sigh of frustration. “But I’m not sure it’s what I want. And it wouldn’t leave much room for anything else.”
“Anything else like…?”
I hesitated, almost too embarrassed to say it. “Like the band, I guess.”
His forehead wrinkled in surprise. “The band?”
We’d started it together in high school. Me, Josh, and three other guys we knew who could play instruments. Josh had come up with our name—Shiny Heathens—and had been our lead singer until he left for college and I’d taken over lead vocals. It had just been Tyler, Matt, Corey, and me ever since. When Josh came back after college, he hadn’t wanted to rejoin the band, so we’d kept it going without him.
I liked to think we were pretty decent, but it was only something we did in our spare time for fun. We’d always said we didn’t have enough ambition to do more than play covers at local bars around town whenever they had a gap to fill in their schedules.
Only maybe I did have more ambition than that. Being a cover band limited us to third-rate gigs. If we had original material to play, there were a lot more venues that might take us on. So I’d been experimenting with writing songs on my own. I hadn’t told anyone about it, because I wasn’t convinced they were any good. But at this point I’d written enough to fill a whole set list.
It might be time to actually do something with them.
I keep waiting for you to show me a sign that you give a single god damn about anything at all.
I ran a restless hand through my hair, thinking about what my dad had said. Annoyed that he had gotten under my skin, which was exactly what he’d wanted.
Josh leaned back in his chair, hands clasped loosely over his stomach, and silently waited for me to say what was on my mind.
“I, uh…” I paused to clear my throat, dropping my eyes to the table. “I’ve been trying to write some songs, I guess.”
“You have?” The excitement in his voice was unmistakable, but it only made me more embarrassed. He’d tried to talk me into writing songs when we first started the band, convinced for some reason I’d have a talent for it, but I’d stubbornly refused to even try.
“Yeah, a little,” I mumbled, needing to minimize what I’d done to lower his expectations. High expectations were a trap I found it best to avoid whenever possible. “It’s no big deal or anything.”
“Sounds like a big deal to me. I’ve never written a song.”
I forced out a laugh that sounded hollow. “I’m not sure I have either.”
As soon as I said it, I remembered Josh’s admonition about negative self-talk. I could tell he was thinking about it too, in the long look he gave me before he spoke, but he didn’t repeat it.
“What does the rest of the band say?” he asked instead.
My chest felt tight when I tried to take a breath, and my confession came out sounding thready. “I haven’t told them about it.”
“But you’re going to.” Not a question. A statement. Telling me with just those four words that even though he knew I wanted to weasel out, he expected me not to. He wanted me to be better than that.
“Yeah,” I agreed, because I’d always hated disappointing him. “I will.”
“Soon?” This time it was a question, his eyebrows raised and his expression hopeful. “I wouldn’t mind hearing what you’ve written sometime.”
A lump formed in my throat, half gratitude and half fear. I could tell he was proud of me, but that just meant more high expectations—and a higher chance of failure.
To my relief, we were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and Mia cheerfully calling out “Hello?”