Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 88501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
My frown grew deeper as I charged through the rest of the condo. There were some clothes neatly hung up in the bedroom closet, and the bathroom was messy but normal. Takeout boxes cluttered the kitchen counters while the fridge held water, cheese, and milk.
“Are you done being nosy?” Simon snidely asked as I shut the fridge. “I’d invite you to stay, but as you can see, I don’t normally entertain here.”
“No, you don’t entertain at all here. You don’t even live here,” I snapped.
Simon glared at me for a heartbeat, then spun around and marched into the living room. He flopped onto the mattress and covered himself with his blankets so that only his head was poking out.
“This is not how this argument was supposed to go. I’m the one who’s supposed to corner you and make you talk about Sawyer and why the fuck you’re so dead against us dating when we both know that we’re perfect for each other.”
My entire body locked up at his words. That was a conversation I had no intention of having.
“But no! You had to barge in here and nitpick about how I’m living my life!” Simon continued, glaring at me.
I started to shout at him about his obvious inability to take care of himself, but the first word became lodged in my throat. Shouting about how he was scaring me to death wouldn’t fix a goddamn thing.
This couldn’t be a money thing. In the past couple of weeks, I’d received plenty of paper work from his agent about his bookings, fees, award winnings, and even a copy of the contract he’d signed to be an artist-in-residence with the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra. Between his retirement savings and other accounts, Simon had several million dollars stashed away.
This…this was something else.
“Simon, please talk to me. I’m worried about you. If you needed help in getting this house furnished or making it more comfortable, you could have asked any of us. Have we made you feel you can’t come to us?”
“No.” He mumbled that single word, the sound low and petulant.
“Please help me understand. I’m scared for your health.”
Simon growled and threw off the blanket. He shoved to his feet and paced away from me, moving to the far end of the living room. “You don’t get it. I don’t need anything else. I just need a place to sleep”—he paused to wave a hand at the mattress—“and I need a place to work.” He motioned to all the instruments and sheet music. “That’s it. All my focus has to be on my work, but nothing I write is ever good enough.”
“I don’t believe that. You’re so talented. Of course it’s good enough. Why don’t you play something for me?” I walked to where there were several sheets filled with notes and picked them up.
Simon rushed to my side and ripped them out of my hands, pressing them to his chest so I couldn’t see. Tears glistened in his bright eyes. “No! Don’t! You don’t understand. It’s not good enough.” He backpedaled, lifting his gaze to the black foam covering the walls. “It’s why I put these up. To keep noise from outside the house blocked, but also to make it harder for people to hear my work. No one’s allowed to hear it before it’s perfect.”
His fingers clenched the paper, and it crinkled in the room’s silence. My heart broke for him. This was a side of him I didn’t think anyone had ever seen. He was so scared and unsure, as fragile and beautiful as ancient stained glass.
“It doesn’t have to be perfect.”
“It does! Don’t you get it? Everything would be ruined if it wasn’t perfect. My whole life I’ve been this prodigy. The prodigy of my generation. Every competition I entered, I won. Every show I played was sold out. I’ve always been the best, and everyone expects me to write music, so they’ll expect it to be perfect, just like my playing.” His voice broke, and the tears he’d been fighting streaked down his cheeks. “But I can’t make it perfect. No matter how hard I try.”
I slowly closed the distance between us and pulled him into my arms. His slender body shook as sobs racked his frame. I tightened my arms until I was afraid of breaking bones, but I couldn’t absorb his pain into my body.
“You put too much pressure on yourself. You don’t have to be perfect. Mozart was a prodigy, and you bitch all the time that he was an overrated hack. Even if you’re no better than Mozart, is it really that bad?”
“Yes,” Simon moaned into my chest, and I had to stifle a laugh.
“Simon, I can almost guarantee that you’re going to be a wonderful composer if that’s what you want. You know so much about music. I feel like the only thing that’s stopping you is your own fear.”