Page 67 of Reality With You (Arden Beach #1)

Lennon squared her shoulders to Oscar. “I’d like you to be real with me.

Don’t worry about hurting my feelings. I can take it.

Do you genuinely think I have the potential to make it as a recording artist— really make it—or were you only saying that because of Dylan?

Because if I’m just OK, I need to know before I take on this fight.

I need to know if I actually have a chance of making it in this industry, or if my music will remain something I make solely for myself. ”

Oscar steepled his fingers, pressing the tips to his lips.

The man was never in a rush, even as she waited with her heart in her stomach.

“Listen—I like Dylan, he’s a great guy. A real one,” he finally said after a few agonizing seconds.

“But I don’t like anyone enough to put my integrity on the line to make someone’s girlfriend happy.

I’m not in the business of stroking egos, even though my artists wish I were.

” He tilted his fingers toward her, pointing.

“If I say you’re good, you’re good. And you genuinely have the magic, Lennon. ”

Lennon’s organs had become so tightly coiled that it took a moment for what he said to sink in and her body to relax into it. “Thank you,” she said on an exhale.

“Now, you be real with me. Were you going to let this stop you?”

A soft lift tugged at her lips. Lennon felt pretty shitty and defeated right now, but no—probably not. She was too fucking stubborn for that.

The look on her face seemed to be enough of an answer for him as a small, self-satisfied smile found its way to his. “Can I give you some advice?”

“Please.”

“Fame, money, awards—they’re nice, but they aren’t what we do it for.

You can do anything for money. Money is everywhere.

You can be a waitress and make whatever music you want to make for the rest of your life and be happy as a pig in shit because you have everything you need.

It doesn’t matter if anyone else hears it let alone likes it.

Don’t get caught up in all this.” Oscar gestured to the wealth surrounding them.

“I know that’s annoying to hear from someone who has a lot.

I used to hate it when I was playing on street corners in Havana and people said shit like that to me.

But it’s true. No one can take away your dream if your dream is to make music.

So, if that’s how it ends up going, it’s not a loss.

But you should always fight for what you want. ”

Bebe had been exploring the balcony as they spoke. She took a few dainty steps over to Lennon and sniffed her nude pumps. Reaching down, Lennon let the dog evaluate her fingers before she gently buried them in the weightless fluff of her neck and gave her a little scratch.

“You want to know the secret to a good life?” Oscar asked as Bebe sat against her shoe, leaning into Lennon’s hand.

“Being a spoiled Chihuahua?” Lennon answered with a half-smile.

The deep grooves around his mouth lifted as Bebe squinted, nearly falling asleep against Lennon’s palm.

“Not letting anyone tell you what a good life is.” The words settled over her, warm and liberating.

“You gotta know what happiness means to you. It isn’t the same for everyone, but the world will try to tell you it is because they have a stake in making you believe it. ”

Though she hadn’t even begun to untangle what his advice meant to her, that poignant truth reverberated through Lennon’s bones, striking a chord deep within.

“The song I played for you the other night … I wrote it to impress a label, and it did,” Lennon admitted. “But it never felt fully like me. Could I play you something that does?”

“It’d be my pleasure.”

Oscar led her to his office, which was attached to the same long, winding terrace.

She sat down at the white grand piano while he perched himself on the edge of his desk again, grabbing a cigar from the polished wooden box.

It must have been a ritual for him—a cigar and music.

She glanced to the side, missing Dylan’s presence.

But in a sense, he was there.

He always was.

“I was supposed to play this at my friend’s wedding,” Lennon said.

Taking in a deep breath, she began to play the first notes.

They flowed to her not in conscious words or thoughts, but in feeling, her fingers moving to the song she’d begun writing the day of her first visit to this house.

Unlike the other song she’d performed for him, this one felt real. Raw. True to her.

When Lennon finished, she quickly swiped a tear that had pooled in the corner of her eye before spinning around on the bench to face Oscar.

Like last time, he was a picture of stoicism.

Unlike last time, she wasn’t nervously awaiting his praise or criticism.

Instead, she regarded him with grounded curiosity.

“How’d you feel while you were playing?” Oscar asked, the unlit cigar perched between his fingers and Bebe tucked in the other against his chest.

Lennon considered her answer for a moment. “Alive.”

A smile lifted his face. “Money helps us survive. Music, art, love … they’re what makes life worth living. For that feeling, right there.” He tapped the left side of his chest. “That was beautiful, Lennon. You got anything else?”

For the next hour, Lennon played a few other songs she’d been working on in various stages of completion.

Agueda joined them, and they snacked on coquetas she’d made.

They offered her advice at the piano as they worked on them, even though there was a chance no one outside that room would ever hear them.

Where working with the record label had been draining, dehumanizing, and disheartening, working with the Alonsos gave Lennon an example of what true collaboration could be like, and what it felt like to have people appreciate the art she was creating without trying to force her into a box that suited them.

Lennon thanked them for their help as they walked her to the front door. She had to reluctantly turn down their offer to stay for dinner since she had to return Dylan’s car to him.

“Feel free to drop by whenever you’re in the neighborhood,” Oscar told her. “Like I said, our door’s always open to friends.”

“Even friends of friends?” Lennon asked.

“You and I are friends now. Let Dylan know he’s been replaced.”

“Will do.” They hugged, and as Lennon pulled away, she said, “By the way, I’m not actually Dylan’s girlfriend.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“He’s my ex-husband.” She stepped outside, taking in a deep breath of plumeria and sea salt. It layered over the sadness settling in her heart at the thought of him probably forever carrying that title.

“I produced love songs for a living,” Oscar remarked as she met his gaze over her shoulder. “I know a man in love when I see one.”