Page 38 of Reality With You (Arden Beach #1)

I t was like an out-of-body experience. Lennon felt as if she was watching herself from a distance as she sat at a piano that probably cost more money than she had made in her entire life. She adjusted her skort. “What would you like to hear?”

“He says you write your own songs,” Oscar remarked. She confirmed with a nod. “One of those, then. Whatever you feel. Let the muse tell you what to play.”

Her muse was currently freaking out, but she told it to pull itself together. Chances like this were rare— not the time to freeze up. Lennon set her fingers on the keys, feeling their smooth surface, their weight. Her hands shook a little. She squeezed them into fists to steady them.

Lennon hadn’t picked up a guitar or played her keyboard or even written anything since the label dropped her.

Well over a month. It was the longest she’d ever gone without making music, and before that, she’d been beating it into submission in failed attempts to please the label.

It’d been even longer since she played for her enjoyment.

It felt like a piece of her had been missing.

Would that piece return on command after being neglected for so long?

What should she even sing?

The first song that came to mind was one the label had scrapped.

It used to be one of her favorites to play, but she’d let it go without much of a fight because she assumed they knew better.

They were the ones with millions of record sales and awards, after all.

What if they’d been right about it? Better not risk it and find out now.

Lennon quickly filed through the songs they had liked and landed on one she used for her demo, the one that had cinched her the record deal—a simple ballad about young love.

Having the person who inspired it standing behind her almost made her more nervous than playing for Oscar. Almost.

Time slowed, matching the rolling tide beyond the glass. Stretching her fingers over the keys, she took a deep, anchoring breath and began to play.

Lennon had performed that particular song so many times for various auditions that it came easily to her.

She knew every inflection, every note like a well-practiced routine.

By the end, when she brought it to a close on the last notes, she sighed with relief, satisfied with herself.

A clean performance with no words stumbled, no pitch problems, no fumbled keys. Technically perfect.

As the final note drifted off, two sets of applause rang out behind her. Lennon turned to face them, gratitude warming her cheeks and chest, her skin buzzing.

“You wrote that?” Oscar confirmed, sitting on one hip on his desk.

“Yes, sir.” Lennon’s eyes briefly flicked to Dylan, who held an expression she couldn’t quite read.

Oscar seemed to be in thought as he tapped his thumb against the other hand resting on his bent knee. His expression was also agonizingly unreadable.

Did he like it? Did he hate it? Was he about to tell her she needed to put all her eggs in the reality star basket and hope for the best?

Time slowed to a crawl again as she waited for him to speak. She glanced at Dylan again, who stood with his arms crossed, thumb rubbing absentmindedly across his chin as he watched Oscar. He met her gaze, and his eyes softened into a smile. One of pride and encouragement.

Lennon relaxed a little.

“The record label you were signed to,” Oscar said, drawing their attention back to him. “Who were they?”

“Goldrush Records,” she answered, the name tasting bitter on her tongue.

Oscar’s mouth pressed into a disapproving line.

“They don’t take the time to develop their artists.

They’re too focused on the market—the market this, the market that.

” He shook his head. “I don’t believe in that.

I believe in creating the market. You make something great, the market follows.

Everyone starts copying you rather than the other way around.

Goldrush wants a machine to make easy money, and they do make a lot of it with that method, sure.

Money is great; I love money. It makes life comfortable.

But art—that’s what gives life meaning.” The corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk.

“I want both. You make great art in this business, the money follows.”

Oscar’s ethos resonated with Lennon more than anything she ever heard from the label executives during her time at Goldrush. It felt right .

But what was he implying about her ? That she wasn’t making great art? She wondered if she’d made a mistake—maybe she should’ve played a different song.

“Why do you want to be a recording artist?” Oscar asked.

What a complicated question. She wished she had a good answer prepared. The record label had never asked her that; no one had. But it was something she should have thought to have ready.

After a moment, Lennon said the first thing that came to mind.

“Because of exactly what you said—art makes life worth living. Music has gotten me through every bad moment in my life and given me something to live for when everything else was falling apart around me. It’s my one constant.

It’s there when I need to dance, when I need to cry, when I need to figure shit out.

It’s kept me company when I’m alone. It’s helped me put the pieces back together when my heart was broken.

” Lennon swallowed, avoiding Dylan when she saw his head slightly dip.

“If I can create music that does for someone else what so many artists have done for me, then I believe that’s one of the best contributions I could make to the world. Like I’m paying it forward.”

Oscar stared at her for a few long moments, and she was pretty sure her heart had stopped in the interim.

Finally, his lips curved into a small but meaningful smile.

“That’s because you’re a true artist,” he stated.

The blood suddenly rushed back through her system, her heart pumping fast, with a rush of …

joy. “You have a beautiful voice, easy to listen to but distinct. Your writing has a lot of promise, too.” He squinted in consideration, nodding. “You’re talented.”

Lennon’s voice lodged in her throat for a second. “Thank you,” she finally squeezed out. “I appreciate that.”

“Did the label say why they ended things?”

“They said I wasn’t fitting their ‘creative vision,’” she answered, trying not to sound too bitter. And likely failing miserably.

Oscar chuckled, and she wondered if it was because she had, indeed, failed miserably.

“It’s good they dropped you,” he said. “That’s code for ‘our analysts pinpointed a new trend, and you don’t fit the mold.

’ Means you’re not a karaoke chameleon. You have a distinct sound.

Like an artist should.” He opened a polished wooden box on his desk and removed a cigar, which he proceeded to unwrap. “What are your plans?”

Lennon reeled from the rush of his validation, not to mention the perspective shift he’d offered about her killed contract.

She would have to process it all later when she was alone.

She blew a gust of air through her lips.

“Honestly—I don’t know. I was cast on a reality show here in Arden Beach, hoping it would help me get some exposure and make connections.

I’ll probably start submitting demos again soon. ”

“Been making new music?” Oscar kept his attention on the cigar, carefully trimming the tip.

Lennon glanced at Dylan, who had been standing quietly to the side. She recalled him gently calling her out for avoiding her music since the label let her go. Instead of giving her an “I told you so” look, she found reassurance in his expression. See, you’re talented; there’s no reason to hide.

“I’ve been taking a break. I haven’t felt very inspired lately,” Lennon admitted, shame and guilt creeping in like she was admitting to neglect of a loved one, though it had felt more like being rejected by one.

“Breaks are good, so as long as they don’t go on too long,” Oscar advised. “It’s a muscle. Don’t let it atrophy.”

A knock came at the door.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Agueda said, then looked at Oscar with an expression that said, “get a load of this.” She planted a fist on her hip. “Raquel is here for dinner.”

Lennon’s eyes widened slightly at the name—the one on several of the platinum albums hanging around his office that he’d produced. The same Latin pop albums Lennon herself owned and had practically worn out over the years.

Granted, he could know more than one Raquel … .

Oscar shook his head languidly. “That woman is always early. Doesn’t matter if it’s a recording session or a party. She was even born premature,” he said to Dylan and Lennon. Lennon’s stomach clenched at the words recording session . “Tell her I’ll be there in a minute.”

Agueda disappeared down the hall.

Lennon decided not to express how big a fan she was of Raquel Rosas, and instead played it cool, despite the orchestra erupting inside her. Dylan’s lips dimpled at the corners in amusement, undoubtedly aware that she was on the verge of losing her shit.

“Well, thank you for taking the time to meet with me,” Lennon said. “It’s been an honor and a pleasure.” She rose from the piano stool, her legs a little shaky.

“You like Cuban food?” Oscar asked as he opened the box of cigars again.

“Who doesn’t like Cuban food?” Lennon answered.

“I think it’s a requirement when you live in South Florida,” Dylan agreed.

“Stay then if you don’t have other plans. My sister made paella . It’s the best. Makes your tongue come out of your mouth and slap the back of your head.”

For a moment, Lennon wondered if this had been part of Dylan’s surprise, but when they exchanged a look, she realized he was as caught off guard as she was.

“We’d love to,” Dylan said, a smile tugging at his lips as he watched Lennon, who tried not to nod too enthusiastically.