Chapter 13 Julian
JULIAN
New Orleans has always felt like a living instrument to me.
It hums beneath your feet when you walk its streets, a constant vibration that seems to rise from the very bones of the earth.
It breathes through cracked sidewalks and ornate iron balconies, through doors that have been opened and shut a thousand times too many, their hinges singing with age and use.
The city doesn’t pretend it hasn’t been hurt.
It wears its history openly, like scars transformed into tattoos, grief stitched into celebration, loss braided into sound.
Jazz was born here because things were unbearable and people needed a way to survive them.
Music as resilience. Music as defiance. Music as joy pulled from ruin like flowers growing through concrete.
I love it here. There is never a dull moment amongst the people of this city.
The food, the culture, the way strangers nod at each other on the street like they share some sacred secret, it’s like no other place I’ve ever been.
I swear I lived here in a past life. New Orleans is in my blood, flowing through my veins with the same rhythm as my heartbeat.
Which makes it deeply ironic that at nine-fifteen in the morning, I am sitting at a grand piano in a borrowed studio instead of outside, breathing in the city like medicine.
Sunlight filters through tall windows that stretch from floor to ceiling, warm and golden, catching dust motes that dance like tiny spirits in the air.
The studio is beautiful in that effortless way only New Orleans spaces can be—high ceilings with exposed beams, walls painted a soft cream that’s aged to something warmer, more lived-in.
The piano beneath my fingers is a good one.
A Steinway, actually, though not mine, of course.
My own piano is safely locked away in my apartment in New York, gathering dust while I’m on this godforsaken tour.
This one is close enough that it will do.
The bench creaks slightly when I shift, the sound too loud in the otherwise quiet room, echoing off the walls in a way that makes me hyperaware of my own presence.
Somewhere outside I can hear the distant hum of traffic, a horn honking impatiently, a laugh that floats upward from the street below and disappears into the morning air.
This is the part of the day I would normally steal for myself.
Back home, nine-fifteen would find me in my favorite café, nursing my second cup of coffee and watching the city wake up through rain-streaked windows.
Or better yet, I’d be here in New Orleans, wandering the Quarter with no destination in mind.
I want a coffee in my hands, a real coffee, not the hotel swill I’ve been choking down for weeks.
I want to duck into antique shops and used bookstores, to sit on a park bench and watch street musicians set up for the day.
I want to be anonymous in a city that understands performance doesn’t always mean pretending.
Except that isn’t possible anymore. Not after the first show in Los Angeles.
Especially, not after what went down in Chicago.
I imagined it for half a second anyway. Walking through the Quarter like I used to when I first started coming here in my twenties, when I was nobody special and could disappear into the crowd.
Ducking into places I’ve loved since my first visit, that little record shop on Royal Street where the owner knows every pressing of every Blue Note album ever made, the café where they serve café au lait in bowls instead of cups.
Letting myself be anonymous again, even for an hour.
Then reality intrudes, sharp and unwelcome.
Roderick by my shoulder, head on a swivel, in constant vigilance as phones lift in my direction the moment someone recognizes me.
The weight of being watched, of having every casual gesture analyzed and posted online.
My imagination, just like my autonomy, dissipates in a puff of wishful smoke.
Being known has a cost. Recognition is a cage painted gold. So instead, I’m here. Quarter past nine. A piano and a room with no exit, at least for the next few hours.
I glance at the clock on the wall, an old thing with Roman numerals and hands that move with deliberate precision. Irritation flares hot behind my ribs. Malik is late. Or maybe he isn’t coming at all.
The thought shouldn’t matter to me. It should be a relief.
There’s something unsettling about the possibility that he might just. .
.not show up. That this whole collaboration our record labels orchestrated might collapse before it even begins.
I told Damon I would show up. I agreed to this collaboration, even though every fiber of my being screamed against it.
Damon made it clear I didn’t have a choice, his words delivered with that shark-like smile that never reaches his blue eyes.
For the first time in my career, I’m beginning to question my record label and my future there. Damon had been calm in that infuriating way, his voice smooth as aged whiskey as he laid out incentives like breadcrumbs leading to a trap.
“Get through the tour, Julian. Do the collaboration, and we can talk more about creative freedom later. You’ll be set up for so much more. Just get through the next few months.”
Freedom always comes later, doesn’t it. It’s always the carrot dangling just out of reach, the promise that keeps you moving forward even when you’re not sure where the path leads.
Well, I’m thinking long and hard about my freedom these days.
It worked well for Brea Brookes when she broke free from her label three years ago, and look how well she’s doing now, Grammy nominations, sold-out venues, creative control.
So why not me? Why should I keep playing by rules that were written to contain me?
I exhale slowly and rest my hands on my thighs, pressing my palms against the expensive fabric of my slacks.
I’m not a child anymore. I don’t get to storm out because I’m angry, don’t get to slam doors and sulk until someone comes to coax me back.
Ha, not that Mave Reed would have ever let me storm out of a room anyway.
My mother’s voice echoes in my memory: Julian Miles Reed, you will sit still and you will be polite, or there will be consequences.
So, I do what I’ve always done. I sit. I wait. I play.
The door opens behind me with a creak that seems to go on and on.
I don’t turn right away. I know it’s him before I see him, before I hear his voice or catch his scent.
Some things imprint themselves too deeply to forget, become part of your cellular memory.
Even after all this time. Even after everything that’s happened between us.
I can sense when he’s near, the way you can feel a storm coming long before you see the clouds.
His footsteps are measured, hesitant even, but still familiar. I hate that I still recall everything about him, that my body keeps a catalogue of details I thought I’d successfully buried.
Then the smell hits me like a physical force. Coffee. Strong and sweet, with that distinctive chicory bite that only comes from one place. Fried dough and powdered sugar, the scent so rich and warm it makes my mouth water involuntarily.
My stomach betrays me immediately, growling loudly enough that I’m certain he hears it. My own body has turned traitor, responding to sense memories I can’t control.
“Morning,” Malik says.
I turn, telling myself to be polite. It’s a professional courtesy to acknowledge his presence, nothing more, nothing less. Basic human decency.
He’s in dark jeans that fit him perfectly and a plain black t-shirt that stretches across shoulders that are broader than they used to be.
Casual in the way only someone who doesn’t need to try can be, who knows that everything looks good on them.
He’s holding two cups of coffee and a paper bag with a logo I know by heart, one that makes my chest tighten with unwanted nostalgia.
Café du Monde. God damn you, Malik. I’m a sucker for beignets and he knows it. Of course, he would show up with a peace offering in the form of delicious pillowy goodness. Of course, he would remember this particular weakness of mine.
He’s wearing sunglasses despite being indoors, hiding those brown eyes that always saw too much. The coward in me is grateful for the barrier, even as the rest of me wants to demand he take them off, wants to see if his eyes still hold the same warmth they used to.
He sets everything down carefully on the piano’s edge, his movements deliberate and controlled, like I’m a wild animal and he’s afraid I might bite the hell out of him if he moves too fast. Well, maybe he should be wary. Maybe I am exactly that dangerous.
“I wasn’t sure how you take your coffee anymore,” he adds, nodding at the cups. His voice carries an uncertainty that doesn’t suit him, makes him sound younger than his thirty-four years. “So, I guessed.”
I stare at the bag longer than I should, longer than is remotely professional or dignified.
The smell alone is enough to drag me back years, back to late nights and early mornings in the music practice rooms at school.
Back to when coffee runs were rituals, when sharing food was an act of intimacy so casual we didn’t even think about it.
When I trusted him with everything I had.
“Black,” I say finally, my voice coming out rougher than intended. “Still.”
A corner of his mouth lifts in something that might be relief or recognition or both. The expression doesn’t quite fit him, too tentative, too careful. “Good.”