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“I don’t think I can do it,” she said, her voice wobbling. Fresh tears spilled from her eyes, and she waved a hand at the soundboard. “It’s like, I can hear in my head what it’s supposed to be and it’s not that. And I just…” She broke up as a soft sob interrupted her. Sucking in a breath, she looked at her lap and shrugged. “I’m not this person. I’m not made for this.”
He cupped her face with both of his hands and carefully wiped the tears on her cheeks with his thumbs.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
She didn’t at first, but when she did, he could see it. And boy oh boy, did he understand it. That fear of having, ofknowingexactly what you want and it being just out of reach.
“You are made for this,” he said.
She shook her head and he smiled, undeterred.
“Listen to me, beautiful,” he said, seeking her eyes again. “You are gifted. You are talented. The people around you see it and believe in it. They would not put this kind of thing in your hands if they didn’t trust you to make the exact brand of beautiful you already are.”
She swallowed and frowned at him. “You don’t understand.”
“Do I know how to make a record?” he asked and made a face. “Obviously not. Do I know what any of those buttons or switches do? No.” He shook his head. “But I know you. I know your heart. I know how much care you put into the music you make.”
“It’s so hard,” she said, fresh tears falling. “I don’t know if I can do it.”
These weren’t words she was saying just to say. Her struggle was palpable, and he wished he could take away her doubt and fear. He would show her exactly how he saw her. And he would show her that the faith everyone had put into her talent wasn’t in vain.
“C’mere,” he said, standing up and holding his hand out to help her.
“I can’t leave,” she protested. “I have so much work to do.”
“We’re not leaving,” he urged, keeping his voice soft. “Let me help you.”
She huffed but took his hand and stood up.
He pulled her to the center of the control room and moved her arm to his shoulder. He put a hand on her waist, held their joined hands in between them at his heart, and pulled her close so her head rested on his chest beside their hands.
He swayed gently to the song in his mind until she relaxed into him.
And then he sang the only Billy Joel song he knew to her—“Vienna.”
Somewhere in that small control room in the wee hours of the morning, he was able to reach her.
They held each other for a long time. Dancing, existing, breathing peace into one another.
Quietly she slipped away and went back to the soundboard. No more tears, just fresh determination.
And he lay down on the sofa and watched her work until he fell asleep.
CHAPTERNINETEEN
THIS LOVE
ANDRÉ
“And that is why…” He drew a line under his terrible illustration. It was supposed to be a cow, but it looked more like a hairy potato. Whatever. He wasn’t an artist. “You always leave a note.”
He smiled at the soft snickers behind him but schooled his expression before turning back around. He faced his class and capped the dry-erase marker.
“Any questions?”
One hand went up.
“Yes, Ms. Arias?”
