Page 68 of Dream On

My gloom finally morphs into a tiny grin as I whip the blanket off and lift to my feet. I wince slightly when my left knee pangs. It’ll never be what it used to be, and it’s one of many reasons why my acting dreams were put on hold—knee replacements are no joke. The car accident four years ago left me with a crushed knee and broken spirit, and the subsequent surgeries and rehabilitation were more grueling than I’d ever imagined. The initial surgery to repair the damage took hours, followed by months of physical therapy to regain some mobility. Then, a year later, complications arose, requiring a second round of surgeries and even more rehab. Every step has been a reminder of the dreams I’ve had to set aside.

And that was only part of it.

Because of the lie I painted that put me in that driver’s seat, the auto insurance refused to pay out, and with our subpar health insurance offering only the bare minimum, my medical costs were astronomical. The financial burden has been overwhelming, leaving my family and me drowning in debt. My parents had to scrape together funds to cover most of the initial surgeries and countless therapy sessions while I nailed down a job the moment I was fully mobile.

The only silver lining? By some miracle, I was never slapped with a DUI charge. The lawyers worked something out behind the scenes, and my record is still squeaky clean.

But regret eats at me every day. Every minute.

One lie—one impulsive moment of fear for a boy I deeply cared about—shaped the course of my future, and I’m still paying for it.

And then that boy left.

Vanished.

Dropped from my orbit like a fallen star.

Joplin severs the silence as I make my way to the table, seated inside theeat-in kitchen. “How was work tonight by the way?” she asks, tossing flour into a saucepan and making a roux. She peeks at me over her shoulder while I sink into the hand-me-down dining chair. “Did you make magic?”

I smile, propping my chin in my hand. “It was good. We had a great turnout tonight. Hamlin even played a song with me.”

“Oof. You two are fire together on that piano.”

Nodding, I allow the smile to stick as I think about Mr. Hamlin and how gracious and supportive he’s been over the last few years. We stayed in touch after graduation, and eventually, his wife hired me to play at their piano bar in Lincoln Park, called the Velvet Key. The neighborhood is known for its thriving nightlife scene, and the piano bar is always vibrant and alive with a diverse crowd.

Joplin and I live together in a two-bedroom apartment above a coffee shop in Logan Square, while she works part-time at a café and juggles classes at Northwestern University, aiming for a degree in forensic pathology. The neighborhood we’re in is more affordable than other areas in the city but still considered safe and family-friendly. While I’m reliant on rideshares and car pools to and from work, the system works for now. It’s not what I envisioned for my future. No college degree, no movie sets, no flurry of acting auditions, but I love what I do.

Regardless of how the cards fell into place, I’m still making music.

And I’m still here.

I help my sister finish the soup, and we carry our porcelain bowls over to the table to eat. Steam rolls off the top, bringing with it scents of buttery broth and a brininess that reminds me of the ocean.

Suddenly starved, I shovel a spoonful into my mouth and scald the shit out of my tongue.

“Nice,” Joplin quips, still blowing on hers, waiting for it to cool. “I knew you were hungry.” A minute passes as we stir our soup before my sister clears her throat, and a darker undertone swallows the space between us. “I also know you’ve been dodging the elephant in the room all night.”

I brace myself for her follow-up statement. It hovers, howls, manifests into a tangible third party sitting in the empty chair beside me that once belongedto Jameson. My stomach twists, and the soup turns sour in my mouth. Stale seawater and grease.

“Stevie—”

“It’s fine,” I breathe out, pushing my bowl away. My hands start to shake, so I stuff them between my thighs as my feet bounce up and down. “I’ll get through it.”

“It doesn’t have to be fine, you know. You can be mad. Bitter, resentful. You’re allowed to be in pain.” She rubs her lips together. “You’re not on a stage when you’re with me. You don’t have to pretend.”

My eyes water, my teeth grinding together. “I’ll just never understand why he hasn’t reached out. Why he disappeared, ghosted me, and changed his number. And now…”

“Now he has everything you’ve been dreaming about your whole life.”

I close my eyes, and a tear slides loose. “Yeah.”

Lexington Hall.

Lex.

That name used to make me think of stage lights, wrinkled scripts, stargazing, and solace. Now the name is associated with Hollywood royalty.

Magazine covers.