Page 63 of A Wistful Symphony

“I’m the one who vouched for you, Eric.” He points to his own chest. “If you fail, it spills on my name as well.”

A long, disappointed exhale leaves my nostrils. “We delivered on time, and Ms Thorne tells me they loved the final product, so don’t twist your knickers. Your precious name won’t be tarnished.” I pause, considering if I should go on. “And if it’s any consolation to you, I’ve quit my job.”

A tiny crease forms between his brows. “Is this true?”

“Yes. My name won’t be linked to the BBC or Bluebell Studios anymore.”

I mean to walk away, but his voice stops me.

“Then come work with me. We’re in need of fresh blood in my studio, and you’d be more than welcome.” He waits for me to turn around. “Could be a way for us to patch things up and put the past behind. Father and son again, what do you say?”

I stare at him in bleak silence, my gut twirling in disgust. “If you think a job offer can erase what you did, you’re delusional.”

He draws closer, lips compressed in a fine line. “I’ve changed, Eric. I’ve been sober for over a decade and worked hard to rebuild my life. All I want is to make amends, to have a family again. Why can’t you see it?”

A flimsy part of me wants to believe him. To cling to the fickle possibility he could turn into everything I’d hoped for as a child. It’s nothing but a fantasy. Because seeing his face is enough for the dormant wounds he left to rip wide open. And I refuse to submit to that kind of pain ever again.

“It’s great that you’re better, Marvin. It really is. But I still don’t want you in my life.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “You would rather turn down an invaluable offer out of spite?” He raises his voice.

“Do you know how many companies will be willing to work with you after your poor reputation with the BBC? That’s right.

I’m the best chance you’ve got, Eric, and after the lengths I’ve gone to, the least you owe me is a little forgiveness. ”

His narcissism is uncanny. I want to retort and prove he’s wrong, but what would be the point? He wouldn’t understand. He doesn’t want to understand. It’s useless to look for affection, recognition, or even basic human empathy from a man who’s keen on giving me none.

And so, like a rope that’s carved bruises on my hand for far too long, I finally let go.

“You know what, Marvin? I don’t owe you shit.”

I turn around and leave him behind.

In the days following my resignation, I concentrate on developing a business plan.

Delia’s eager to help me with my new endeavour, and I’m pleasantly surprised at how skilled my baby sister is at her major.

It only takes her a couple of days to start calling old business partners and offering my services.

I wish I could say they drowned me in job offers right away, but Ms Thorne’s prediction was more accurate than I’ve expected.

My trust levels in the industry are low, and no one wants to risk signing with a young nobody.

After a week of pacing around the flat and redoing my budget countless times to see how long my meagre savings will last, a call changes everything.

“Eric?” Robin’s excited voice strikes me on the other end of the line. “Are you fucking sitting?”

“Hey, Robin.” I rub my eyes after a nap. Knowing their tendency towards exaggeration, this could be the most boring news ever. “Yeah, I’m sitting. What’s this about?”

“So, I sent your song to the producer, like you asked, right? By the way, what a great song, love! If someone wrote me anything remotely like that, I would be a puddle. Anyway, I digress. I buttered you and your song up, like the good marketer I am, and he said he’d look at it later.

Alas, since it’s been weeks, I thought to myself ‘well, he must think it’s mid’ and let it go, but he called me just now and you will never believe it, love—”

“Oh my God, Robin, will you get to the fucking point?” I cut them off, my heart racing with hope.

“Easy, darling, I’m getting there.” They clear their throat. “So, I told you he works with a former One Direction member, right? Turns out he showed your song to the guy, and he loved it to pieces.” Robin pauses dramatically. “They want to release it as a single!”

I sit still on my bed. My head is buzzing with static, and my heart cartwheels all the way to my throat.

They love my song? The song I wrote for you?

This could not only be the financial aid I was looking for, but the grand chance I’ve been waiting for all my life.

If this is a dream, by all means, do not wake me up.

However, there’s one detail to consider. This song is as much about you as it is about me. Would it be fair to release such a personal thing without giving you a heads-up? And what if you hate it? What if you don’t want our relationship exposed to the world? Would it be fair to release it, anyway?

“Eric? Are you still there? Did you faint?”

“Yeah, I’m still here.” I take a deep breath and organise my thoughts. “Robin, I’m sorry. I’m more than thrilled, but I sent you this song on a total impulse. This one is quite personal, and I don’t think I can sell it if Andrew isn’t okay with it. The song is about him, as you must know.”

“Oh, for crying out loud, darling, breakup songs are the stepping stone of pop music, and Taylor Swift is there to prove it. You wrote it, you can do with it whatever you please.”

“Still.” I chew the inside of my cheek. “It would weight on my conscience if I didn’t get his approval first.”

“Ugh, suit yourself. But do it quick. I need an answer by this evening, okay?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll talk to him today.” I centre myself and hang up the phone.

An hour and a half later, I get off at Oxford Circus station.

It’s Wednesday, a day when you work at the church orphanage.

At least, I think so. It’s been a month since the last time we’ve talked, and who knows how your life’s changed.

Maybe you’ve forgotten about me. Maybe you’ve even found a new boyfriend.

Or maybe, worst-case scenario, you’ve left London never to return.

That conundrum could be solved with a simple phone call, I know. But finding out you disappeared or that you don’t want to talk to me ever again through something so impersonal would be the worst ending for us.

If this must be the last time we speak, Andrew, it might as well be face to face. And I hope, with all my heart, this time it will bring us closure.

I enter the church’s adjacent building by its independent entrance.

The receptionist greets me with a warm smile, and I ask her if, by any chance, you’ll be teaching your class today.

To my utter relief, she says yes. With my stomach in my throat, I wander the corridors.

Right, left, and left again. Why do there have to be so many?

A crescent wave of out-of-tune music tells me I’m getting closer.

Once I reach your classroom door, I stop.

You’re in the middle of a lesson, and I wouldn’t dare interrupt it for my silly matters.

It’s fortunate, even. The wait by your door grants me precious minutes to mitigate the thundering gallop inside my chest. Suddenly struck by the summer heat, I take off my jacket and fidget with the sleeves.

Remembering how you often do something similar brings a smile to my lips.

The piece ends, and you rest the baton on the sheet music stand. I give three quick knocks on the door and, once you turn, I open it a timid crack.

“Eric?” A deep groove carves between your brows. “What are you doing here?”

“Hey, Andrew.” I take a deep breath. “Is it okay for us to talk? When your class is over, of course.”

“Oh, I can end the lesson early. No problem at all.” You glance to the side, where a flock of kids dart curious eyes from me to you and whisper in unveiled excitement. “Kids, you’re dismissed.”

A wave of disappointed whines grows inside the room, and I wait until the kids pick up their things and leave in a single queue before I say anything.

“You sure it’s okay?” I show myself in and stand a safe metre from you.

“No worries.” You grant me a warm grin, the one that creases the bridge of your nose. God, how I missed it. “It’s only ten minutes before five, and those kids would never shut up asking questions.”

I let out a brief chuckle. “When you look at it that way ….”

“Anyway, what are you here about?” You sit on a chair and invite me to take the one in front of you. “And in a T-shirt and jeans, no less. Are you on a holiday or something? I don’t think I’ve seen you wear that since we were teens.”

“No, actually—” I glance to the side and scratch the back of my head. “I quit my job.”

The smile fades on your countenance and you bite your lip. “Because of me?”

“No, of course not. I did it because of myself.” Your knit brows tell me you don’t follow.

“That job was a dead end. I thought the BBC project would put me on the next level, but it turned out to be far from the truth. When I realised I’d spend the rest of my life working the same mindless compositions, I knew it was time to leave. ”

The crease between your eyebrows intensifies. “Are you sure it was the best decision?”

“I don’t know.” I laugh nervously. “Last week I was panicking, thinking I’d thrown away my life and mentally revising my budget, but it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Why shouldn’t it, Eric? Don’t you need stability?”

“Maybe.” I shrug. “But I need my dream more. I have to try, even if it means working at a jazz bar and playing requests for silly pop songs.”

That makes you laugh. A sweet, low, and beautiful laugh. “I’m glad you’re fighting for your dream. Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

“Not quite.” I take a deep breath and continue. “While I was in Somerset, I wrote a song. To be fair, it was just lyrics and some improvement for the song I composed ten years ago. The one you helped me write, remember?”

“Yes, I remember.”