6. Rocco
— ? —
Rocco
The morning of the showcase, I wake up with a song still playing in my head.
This has been happening more often lately - melodies arriving unbidden, harmonies resolving themselves while I sleep. For eighteen months I begged the music to come back, and now it won’t leave me alone. It’s overwhelming and exhausting and the most alive I’ve felt in years.
I reach across the bed for Senna, but her side is cold. She must already be up.
The thought passes through me without landing, the way most thoughts about Senna have been passing through me lately. I should check on her. I should ask how she’s doing. But there’s so much to prepare for tonight, and she’s always fine, always steady, always there when I need her.
I find her in the kitchen, drinking coffee and staring out the window with an expression I can’t quite read.
“Morning,” I say. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Nervous about tonight?”
She looks at me, and something flickers across her face that I don’t understand. “Should I be?”
“No, I just-” I’m not sure what I meant. The showcase is tonight. The biggest night of my career in eighteen months. I should probably be nervous too, but mostly I just feel ready. “I thought you might be feeling the anticipation.”
“Anticipation.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “Sure.”
There’s something in her tone that makes me pause, some undertone I should probably investigate. But my phone buzzes on the counter - a text from Fiorella about the sound check schedule - and the moment slips away before I can catch it.
“I have to head to the venue early,” I say, already moving toward the bedroom to get dressed. “Sound check, lighting setup, all that. Fiorella wants to run the arrangement one more time.”
“Of course she does.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” Senna sets down her coffee cup. “Just that Fiorella always seems to want something.”
“She’s thorough. That’s why the label brought her in.”
“Right. Because she’s thorough.”
I should ask what’s wrong. I should sit down and have a real conversation about whatever’s been simmering between us for the past few weeks. But the showcase is in twelve hours, and I can’t afford to be distracted, and surely whatever this is can wait until tomorrow.
“We’ll talk later, okay?” I say. “After the showcase. When things calm down.”
“When things calm down,” she repeats. “You keep saying that.”
“Because I mean it. I know I’ve been distant. I know the collaboration has taken over everything. But after tonight-”
“After tonight, there’ll be something else. There’s always something else.”
“Senna-”
“Go get ready for your sound check.” She turns back to the window. “I’m sure Fiorella’s waiting.”
I stand there for a moment, caught between the woman I married and the career I’ve been fighting to save.
Part of me knows I should stay, should push through her defenses, should figure out what’s actually going on.
But Fiorella texted twice more while we were talking, and the venue needs me, and Senna will still be here when I get back.
She’s always here when I get back.
“I love you,” I say.
“I know.”
It’s not “I love you too.” I notice that. But I’m already running late, and the band is waiting, and surely it doesn’t mean anything.
Surely.
***
The Teatro Maggio is chaos in the best possible way.
Techs running cables, lighting designers arguing about angles, Fiorella directing everything with the calm authority of someone who was born for this. This is where I belong - in the center of creation, making something from nothing, feeling the music pulse through me like a second heartbeat.
“The levels are perfect,” Fiorella says, appearing at my elbow with a tablet full of notes. “The label sent over the final guest list. Everyone who matters is coming.”
“That’s great.”
“You don’t seem excited.”
“I am. I’m just-” I run my hand through my hair. “Senna seemed off this morning. I can’t figure out what’s wrong.”
Fiorella’s expression shifts, something I can’t quite read passing across her features. “She’s probably just adjusting. Having me around so much, working so closely with you - it can’t be easy for her.”
“You think she’s jealous?”
“I think she’s used to being the only woman in your creative life. And now there’s me, and we have this connection, this chemistry-” She gestures between us. “It’s natural for her to feel threatened.”
“She shouldn’t feel threatened. You and I are collaborators. That’s all.”
“Of course. But does she know that?”
I think about Senna’s face in the kitchen, the flatness in her voice when she said “I know” instead of “I love you too.” The way she’s been pulling away from me for weeks, or maybe longer, maybe I just haven’t been paying attention.
“I should have asked her to come tonight,” I say. “Explicitly. Instead of just assuming she knew she was invited.”
“Did you want her to come?”
The question catches me off guard. “What do you mean? She’s my wife.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Fiorella moves closer, lowering her voice. “Tonight is your comeback. Your moment. Do you really want to spend it worrying about whether Senna’s enjoying herself, whether she’s feeling included, whether you’re paying enough attention to her?”
“That’s-”
“Because I’ve watched you light up over the past few weeks, Rocco. I’ve watched you come back to life. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence that it happened when you finally had space to focus on your music without-” She stops herself. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”
“Without what?”
“Nothing. Forget I said anything.”
But I can’t forget, because she’s articulated something I’ve been feeling without letting myself think it.
The past eighteen months, Senna has been there, always there, a constant presence reminding me of everything I wasn’t producing.
Her patience felt like pressure. Her support felt like expectation.
And when Fiorella showed up with fresh ideas and no history of watching me fail-
No. That’s not fair. Senna didn’t do anything wrong by being supportive. I’m the one who turned her presence into pressure.
“I should call her,” I say. “Tell her I want her there tonight.”
“If you think that’s best.” Fiorella checks her tablet. “But we need to start the run-through in ten minutes, and Marco just arrived with some people from distribution.”
“Right. The run-through.”
“I could handle Marco for a few minutes if you need to make the call.”
I look at my phone, then at the stage, then at the crew waiting for direction. The showcase is in eight hours. Everything I’ve worked toward for the past two months comes down to tonight.
“The call can wait,” I say. “Let’s do the run-through.”
Fiorella smiles. “Perfect. I’ll tell the band we’re ready.”
She walks away, and I stand there for a moment, phone in hand, thinking about Senna alone in our kitchen.
I’ll call her after the run-through. Or during the break. Or-
My phone buzzes. Marco, wanting to discuss the press strategy.
I put the phone in my pocket and head for the stage.
***
By late afternoon, the venue is transforming.
Seats filling with industry people, the buzz of anticipation building like static electricity. I’m in the green room with Fiorella, doing vocal warm-ups, trying not to think about the fact that I still haven’t called Senna.
I think about Delia, Fiorella’s assistant, and the strange moment I witnessed a few weeks ago - before the collaboration even started.
I’d been at the label for a meeting when I saw her hovering near Marco’s office, passing an envelope to someone inside.
Cash visible at the edge, her face tight with something that looked like reluctance.
She’d spotted me and smiled too quickly, moved away too fast.
I hadn’t thought much of it then. Label business involves all kinds of transactions I don’t understand. But something about her expression stayed with me - the way she wouldn’t quite meet my eyes afterward, like she was carrying a secret she didn’t want to hold.
“The set list,” Fiorella prompts, pulling me back to the present. “We should go over the set list.”
“Right.” I push the memory aside and try to focus on the music.
***
Two hours before the showcase, Fiorella finds me in the corner of the green room, staring at my phone.
“You still haven’t called her,” she says. It’s not a question.
“I keep meaning to. Something keeps coming up.”
“Maybe that’s a sign.”
“A sign of what?”
“That you need to focus on tonight.” She sits down beside me, close enough that I can smell her perfume - something floral, expensive, nothing like Senna’s simple clean scent.
“You’ve worked so hard for this, Rocco. You’ve climbed out of the worst creative drought of your career.
Don’t let guilt about your marriage distract you from what you’ve accomplished. ”
“It’s not guilt.”
“Then what is it?”
“I don’t know.” I turn the phone over in my hands. “I feel like I’ve been missing something. With Senna. Like there’s a conversation we should have had weeks ago, and I keep putting it off.”
“There’s always time for conversations later. There’s only one night like tonight.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself.”
“Because it’s true.” She puts her hand on my arm, and I notice it there, the casual intimacy of the gesture. “You deserve this moment. You’ve earned it. Don’t let anyone make you feel guilty for taking what’s yours.”
I look at her - really look, for the first time in weeks. She’s beautiful in the way of someone who knows exactly how to use beauty as a tool. Every gesture calculated, every word chosen. I’ve been so grateful for her help that I haven’t stopped to wonder what she’s getting out of this.
“What about you?” I ask. “What do you get from all this?”
“What do you mean?”
“The collaboration. The long hours, the dedication. What’s in it for you?”
“I told you. I want to help my brother-in-law. I want to see you succeed.”
“That’s very generous.”
“I’m a generous person.” She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “And maybe I like working with someone who appreciates my talents. Senna never did, you know. Growing up, she always got the praise for her natural gift while I had to work twice as hard for half the recognition.”
There’s something in Fiorella’s voice that sounds almost like resentment, and I file it away to think about later. But later keeps getting pushed back, and the showcase is in two hours, and right now I need to focus on the performance.
“We should do one more vocal warm-up,” I say, standing. “The top of my range feels tight.”
“Of course.” Fiorella stands too, professional mask sliding back into place. “Whatever you need.”
She guides me through the exercises, and I try to lose myself in the routine, in the preparation, in the familiar ritual of getting ready to perform. But part of my mind keeps drifting to Senna, alone in our house, not knowing if she’s welcome at the most important night of my career.
I should have called her.
I should have asked her to come.
I should have done a lot of things differently.
But the clock keeps ticking, and the showcase keeps approaching, and somehow I never quite find the moment to pick up the phone.
***
I can feel the energy from backstage - the murmur of the crowd, the anticipation, the particular buzz that comes before something important happens. This is what I’ve been missing for eighteen months. This is why I make music.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember that I never called Senna. I remember that my wife might be sitting at home right now, alone, wondering if she matters to me at all.
I should call her. I should tell her I want her here.
But the lights are dimming, and the crowd is quieting, and the host is walking onto the stage.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow I’ll fix everything.
I turn toward the stage and wait for my cue.