Chapter 3
JULIAN
I have made this trip twice in the last three weeks, once for obligation and once before rehearsals began, and both times I regretted it before I hit the first bottleneck.
Southern Californian traffic has a way of pressing in on you, lanes collapsing, brake lights blooming red in waves, as if the road itself is irritated by human mobilization.
There’s no way I can’t show my face for Sunday dinner.
My mother is the queen of guilt trips and Mave Reed won’t hesitate to wield that power with surgical precision, her disappointment traveling through phone lines with remarkable clarity.
The radio hums low, some talk station bleeding into music, voices fading in and out like whispers through a wall. The afternoon sun slants through my windshield, casting everything in a golden haze that does nothing to ease my tension.
Needing the distraction as I creep along the highway, trapped between a semi and a minivan that keeps tapping its brakes unnecessarily, I reach out and switch channels with a flick of my wrist.
“—Malik Carter’s Apology continues to climb the charts, with streams surpassing—”
“Oh, hell no!” I change it again, jabbing the button harder than necessary, my fingertips pressing white against the console.
“—a masterclass in restraint and vulnerability, critics are calling it his most honest work to—”
“No fucking way.” Again. The radio dial spins under my touch.
“—stripped-back production, breath and brass, critics are hailing the saxophone solo as—”
“I swear to God!” I exhale sharply and shut the radio off altogether.
Silence rushes in, loud in the absence of noise.
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles strain against my skin and keep my eyes on the road, jaw tight enough to make my temples throb.
I know the song. I know it too well. I know its pacing, the deliberate space between notes, the way it refuses to rush toward resolution.
I know the way the melody lingers, unresolved, like it is waiting for someone else to answer it.
I know how it starts with just his voice, raw and unfiltered, before the saxophone comes in like a confession.
I refuse to think about the lyrics. I refuse to think about who they are for. I refuse to acknowledge the way my chest tightens every time I hear the opening notes, as if my body remembers something my mind wants desperately to forget.
It’s been three weeks. Three weeks since I signed my name and handed over my future to whatever shit-show is about to befall me.
Three weeks of rehearsals, meetings, schedules, contracts, lighting plans, stage diagrams. Three weeks of Eli’s voice in my ear reminding me that everything is going to be okay, that this is the right move for my career, that exposure at this level can’t be bought.
Three weeks of pretending I’m not counting down the days until I face him.
Opening night is in Los Angeles and my stomach churns at how close we are, acid rising in my throat that no amount of antacids can neutralize.
Two weeks from now and I’ll have no choice but to orbit around him, to share stages, to breathe the same air, to hear that voice live instead of through speakers I can silence.
I have not said Malik’s name out loud since the meeting.
I have not needed to. His presence hums beneath everything, unavoidable and insistent.
His music is everywhere. In elevators. In cafes.
In commercials. His half-naked viral video only makes me angrier, the casual confidence with which he moves through the world, shirt discarded, saxophone gleaming in his hands, eyes closed like he’s in prayer.
Because of course. Of course he would do that.
Of course, millions would watch. Of course he would trend for days.
I tell myself this convergence of our paths after so many years of careful distance means nothing. I tell myself this is just proximity, not destiny. Just business, not reconciliation.
“Let it go, Julian,” I say quietly as I focus on the road again, my voice sounding foreign in the confined space of my car.
The exit sign for my parents’ neighborhood appears, and I signal automatically, muscle memory taking over. The city softens as I leave the freeway, concrete giving way to planned communities. Buildings shrink, making way for tall trees, wide streets and the quiet of the suburbs.
I become tenser the closer I get, shoulders draw up toward my ears, breath becomes more measured.
It doesn’t matter how routine these dinners are, how many Sundays I’ve spent at that table, I always find myself shoring up for whatever my parents throw at me.
No matter how many mental pep talks I give myself in the car.
No matter how many times I rehearse responses to inevitable questions.
No matter how many layers of protection I wrap around myself.
Some habits never leave you. Some defenses become part of your skeleton.
My parents have lived in the same home they bought when I was two.
Beige stucco one-story home with dark brown trim and a terracotta tiled roof.
The front yard is manicured within an inch of its life, not a blade of grass out of place, not a leaf daring to fall where it shouldn’t.
The grass is too green to be natural, almost glowing in the late afternoon light.
The roses near the walkway are trimmed perfectly, red blooms arranged in symmetrical clusters like they were positioned for a photo shoot.
A small wooden cross nailed beside the front door, weathered from years of sun and salt air but never removed, never replaced.
A home of a respectable family, unchanging and solid, a fortress of certainty in an uncertain world.
I kill the engine, step out, and smooth down my white button-down shirt before I even take my first breath, checking my reflection in the car window to ensure not a single wrinkle betrays my journey.
A careful orchestrated dance of habit, the first steps of a performance I’ve been giving my entire life.
My mother opens the door before I can knock, as if she has been watching through the blinds, tracking my arrival from the moment my car turned onto their street.
Knowing her, she was. She is sporting a floral dress in shades of blue and purple with her favorite apron with the words, ‘God is Love’ embroidered on the front in gold thread.
Mave Reed looks smaller every time I see her, as if age is slowly condensing her frame while leaving her presence untouched.
Though her personality would beg to differ, she fills any room she enters, commanding space through sheer force of will.
She smiles but her expression is still composed as she eyes me up and down through her glasses that perch perfectly on her nose.
“Hey Ma,” I say as I make my way towards her, my voice carefully calibrated to sound relaxed but respectful.
“Julian,” she says, smiling wide enough to show teeth.
Her lipstick is still perfect, deep berry against smooth brown skin, not a smudge despite the hours she’s spent cooking.
Her hair is pressed and curled, not a strand out of place, the silver at her temples adding dignity rather than age.
Gold hoops frame her face like punctuation marks, catching light when she moves.
She pulls me into a hug that smells like lavender and church perfume, the scent she’s worn since I was a child. She squeezes firmly, like affection is something you can enforce through pressure, like love is measured in the strength of your grip.
“You made it,” she says, pulling back to look at me, her hands lingering on my arms as if checking that I’m real.
“I said I would,” I reply with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. Like I would dare to miss this Sunday before I went on the road. I would never hear the last of it. The guilt would follow me across state lines, trailing behind my tour bus like exhaust.
She tuts softly, a sound I’ve heard all my life. “Always with the tone. Come inside. Your father is watching hockey.”
I step into the house and the air changes.
It always does. The temperature is cooler than necessary, the air conditioning set at a level that requires long sleeves even in summer.
The scent is familiar, a mixture that transports me instantly back through decades.
Dinner cooking on the stove, roasted chicken with herbs and spices, macaroni and cheese with the crusty top my father loves, collard greens with ham hock, and cornbread baking to golden perfection.
Lemon cleaner, bleach from freshly laundered linens, and the scent of vanilla candles that my mother lights only for company. It’s home.
It’s Sunday dinner. Tradition. Obligation dressed up as love. Performance disguised as connection.
The living room is the same, just updated to maintain appearances without changing the essence.
New couches in a subdued taupe without the plastic coverings of my youth, a new flat screen television that takes up too much wall, and the same framed photos on the wall, marking achievements rather than moments.
Me in suit after my first recital, standing straight-backed beside the piano.
Me with a trophy in my hands, smiling the way my mother coached me to smile, teeth showing but eyes carefully controlled.
Graduation photos in cap and gown. My parents flanking me, smiling like they produced me themselves out of sheer willpower, their investment finally paying dividends.
My father’s voice carries from the living room, deep and authoritative. “That was icing, ref! Are you blind? Open your damn eyes!”