Chapter 6 #2
“I’m grateful to anyone who’s given my music a chance,” he says evenly, each word measured. “Especially listeners who might not normally gravitate toward instrumental jazz. Music doesn’t need lyrics to be emotional. It just needs space to breathe.”
His gaze flicks to me for half a second, quick enough to seem accidental but deliberate enough that I feel it like a physical touch.
“I appreciate Malik inviting me to share the stage. I respect him as an artist. There’s no animosity between us. We simply move in different circles, always have. Sometimes the industry makes connections seem more complicated than they are.”
His answer is polished, diplomatic, and deliberately sealed shut.
There is no opening in it, no crack for anyone to slip through, no loose thread for Jodie to pull until the whole thing unravels.
Jodie’s smile falters for just a moment, disappointment flashing across her face before her professional mask snaps back into place.
I nod, echoing agreement, playing my role as the gracious collaborator. “Julian’s exactly right. This is about the music, about giving people something they might not have heard before. The rest is just noise.”
The interview moves on from there, tour dates, Vegas performances, charitable partnerships, future projects, but I answer on autopilot, my attention fixed on the fact that Julian does not look at me again.
He responds to questions with the same careful professionalism, never giving more than necessary, never letting his guard slip even for a moment.
When it’s over, we shake hands with Jodie, exchange pleasantries about the tour, promise to come back when we’re in town again. The entire ritual feels hollow, performed for cameras and expectations rather than any genuine connection.
The elevator ride down is worse than the interview. Too quiet. Too close. Too much shared air and unspoken history. The first time we’ve been alone together, truly alone, in years.
Julian stands with his back against the wall, arms crossed defensively, his body angled away from me like proximity itself is something he has to actively manage.
The defensive posture is so familiar it makes my chest ache with recognition.
I lean casually against the opposite side, pretending ease while my chest tightens with every passing second, every floor we descend together in this suffocating silence.
The elevator music plays something generic and meaningless, elevator jazz that insults the very concept of the genre. I focus on the numbers above the door, watching them count down like a timer on something I can’t name.
I should say something. I want to say everything.
I want to say I’m sorry. I want to say I miss you.
I want to say I was desperate and afraid and I took something from you that I never deserved.
I want to explain that seventeen years have passed and I still think about you every day, still hear your voice in every jazz standard, still feel the ghost of your hands when I play the saxophone.
Instead, I open my mouth and hurt him again.
“I saw your boyfriend last night.”
The words hit the space between us and shatter like glass against concrete.
Julian stiffens immediately, the reaction visceral and unmistakable. His shoulders draw up, his jaw locks, and something behind his eyes goes very still and very dangerous.
“I didn’t know you were seeing someone,” I add, already knowing I’ve mis-stepped, already feeling the wrongness of it but unable to stop myself. “Do your parents know?”
It’s cruel. I know it’s cruel even as the words leave my mouth, but jealousy has made me reckless, has stripped away whatever wisdom I might have possessed.
He curls inward slightly, a protective reflex I recognize from long ago, from when we were teenagers and the world felt too big and too hostile for either of us to navigate safely.
“You know I’m not out,” he says quietly, his voice reserved but brittle, like spun glass under pressure. “Especially not to them. Nothing has changed, Malik. Nothing ever changes.”
The elevator seems to stall, the seconds stretching unbearably while we both exist in this pocket of time neither of us wants to be in.
“I’m sor—”
“Don’t.” He turns his head just enough to look at me directly, his eyes sharp and narrowed, cutting through whatever atonement I’d been about to offer.
“I don’t need or want your apology. Let’s keep the small talk and platitudes for interviews and public appearances.
Let’s not pretend this is anything other than what it is. ”
The elevator dings softly, announcing our arrival at the ground floor.
The doors open. Julian moves fast, stepping out like he’s fleeing a fire, heading straight for Eli without once looking back.
Eli’s eyes flick to me briefly, taking in whatever he sees on my face before he turns and follows Julian away, their exit coordinated and efficient like they’ve practiced this exact scenario.
Renee approaches me immediately, heels clicking against the lobby floor like a warning, her expression all business and barely contained frustration.
“What was that about?” she asks without preamble, her voice low enough to avoid eavesdropping but sharp enough to cut. “The interview went well, but Julian looks like you stole something from him.”
“Nothing,” I say, watching Julian’s SUV pull away through the lobby windows, watching him disappear into Vegas traffic like smoke. “Everything’s fine.”
She doesn’t believe me. She’s managed me too long, knows me too well to buy whatever lie I’m trying to sell.
“Well, it didn’t look fine,” she replies, crossing her arms in a gesture that mirrors Julian’s defensive posture from moments before.
“You have four months of this tour, Malik. Four months of close quarters and shared stages and constant interaction. Is it going to work, or do I need to have a conversation with the label? Maybe consider finding another artist to—”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intend, cutting through her suggestion like a blade. “Replacing Julian is not an option.”
Renee studies me for a long moment, her eyes reading things in my face I’d rather keep hidden, cataloging the damage and calculating the cost.
“Then get your head on straight, Malik,” she says finally, her voice gentler but no less firm.
“Whatever this is between you two, whatever happened, you need to figure it out. Because right now, you’re both bleeding all over each other, and it’s going to destroy everything we’ve built if you don’t find a way to stop. ”
As the SUV disappears into traffic, swallowed up by the endless stream of Vegas movement, a cold truth settles in my chest like winter arriving early.
Maybe Julian is right. Maybe trying to reconcile was a mistake from the beginning.
Maybe distance and small talk and professional courtesy are the only things keeping this from blowing apart completely, from turning into something so destructive it takes us both down. I don’t want to hurt him again.
Standing there in the Vegas heat, watching him disappear yet again into a life I’ll never be part of, I know with devastating clarity that I already have.
The damage is done, has been done for seventeen years, and no amount of shared stages or careful choreography is going to undo what I destroyed when we were barely more than boys who thought music could save us from everything.