Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
PATTY
“ W ow, Patty. I almost didn’t recognize you,” Nash says, folding his arms—a mirror of my pose. I examine Nash like he is me—his naturally light hair, though he used to dye the tips black, all part of his need for contrast. When he went solo, he let his carefully curated persona become something a little more fleshed out. Nathaniel Connor LeDuc became Nash became Connor Nash .
I’m thrust back into countless memories I’ve fought for years to block out. He was always good at this: mimicking me, making me feel small, making me feel useless without him. When I dared to suggest that I wanted more—that I could be a star in my own right—he was so sweetly condescending, offering a mocking reassurance that made me question myself before I even had the chance to dream.
I still remember the way he grabbed my shoulders—so much skinnier back then—and said, “Patty, be serious. Yeah, you’re an excellent musician, but you don’t have what it takes to command a stage.”
After years of him making me second-guess every song I wrote, every note I played, I couldn’t help but believe him. Even after I’d play something for someone else and they’d gush about it, it was always Nash’s opinion that mattered most.
From the first day of freshman year, when we got put in a dorm together, even knowing that he was there because his daddy donated a wing, while I earned my way through grit, talent, and dedication—I couldn’t shake the idea that he was my superior.
He was so wealthy and confident, with a voice as clear as a bell. I was poor, uncultured, and awkward, with a warm, gravelly tone like my mom’s. Gravel and molasses—rich and textured in a way that stays with you. Up until the first time Nash commented on it, I’d always liked my voice.
But then Nash looked at me and said, “Can’t you just clear that out already? You sound like you’re swallowing rocks.”
Then he laughed, like it was just a joke. Like I was a joke for taking it too seriously.
I was just a young, dumb kid. I didn’t know what gaslighting was.
But I do now.
“Yeah,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even. “It’s been a long time.”
“I had no idea how different you looked after that accident,” Nash says, tilting his head slightly. “You barely look like you.”
“That’s strange.” I smile, sharp as a blade. “Because when I look back at myself from the old days, I don’t recognize who I was then.”
I don’t know if Nash picks up on the meaning or not, but I’m glad I said it. I square my shoulders, unwilling to hunch, unwilling to let him push me down again.
“Word is you’re struggling to find songs for your next album,” I say. “A shame, really, especially after how the last one went for you.”
“I’m not worried,” he says, flashing an easy smile, as if I can’t see his nostrils flaring. “That first album? Still making me more money than most artists see in a lifetime.”
I chuckle. “I distinctly remember you saying those songs were too rough to be heard.”
“They were,” he says. “Rough edges don’t sell, Pat. Lucky for me, I’ve always known how to polish things up.”
“Right,” I say dryly. “That’s all it was.”
“Check the liner notes. All songs written by Connor Nash. ”
“You should be so proud,” I say.
“Buddy,” Nash says, dropping his voice. “I know you must look back and wish things had gone differently, but you didn’t have what it took to be a star. You gotta move forward.”
He puts his hands casually in his pockets, and as much as the blood rushing through my body sears my every vein, I casually mimic him .
I put my hands in my pockets.
And I feel the flash drive there, burning a hole into me.
And while I’m deliberating what to do next, he asks, “How’s your dad doing?”
My dad.
Once again, I’m standing at a crossroads.
On the one hand, there’s what I want—the most selfish path. On the other, there’s what the people I love need. And I have no idea how to look at them both, how to face the injustice of two such different roads … and choose.
I think of every time Nash took a piece of me away. The way he chipped at my confidence, eroded my faith in myself, stole all the parts of me that felt most precious. I think about how satisfying it would be to put him in his place. To punch him. To take him down notch by notch the way he always did to me.
But then I think about my dad. I think about Lou. I think about Sean and every sacrifice he’s made since he was a teen to ensure I could live my dream. I think about what my mom said right before we left—that she felt like she had to keep going, had to keep chasing her dreams, or else all of the trade-offs she made were for nothing.
She felt driven by a hunger she couldn’t escape, a fire that burned no matter what it cost her.
She was consumed by the need to prove herself.
I think about the guilt I’ve carried for so long, bearing it like a cross, an albatross around my neck.
And maybe I could carry that weight forever, let it pull me down, let it sink me. But my dad doesn't get that choice, and he wouldn’t take it if he did. He wouldn’t let the past define him.
And neither can I.
Not anymore.
“My dad has the heart of a lion, Nash, but his body ain’t doing that well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says like he means it.
“I’m gonna be honest with you,” I tell him. “He needs surgery, and it’s gonna cost a lot.”
“That’s too bad,” Nash says. “But I’m not in the habit of giving money to old friends.”
“Oh, believe me, I would never ask.”
I hesitate.
It’s now or never.
I have to choose one path or another.
Making my past right or focusing on my future.
What I want or what the people I love need.
But the pull of what I want …
What I want …
I take my hand out of my pocket and put on a Cheshire grin.
“Because we’re old friends, I actually have an offer. A way to solve your music problem.”
“I don’t have a music problem,” he insists, but his gaze is narrowing.
I twirl the flash drive in my hand, and his eyes catch on it.
“The way I see it,” I say, “you have an album that needs a co-writer. You know I have songs, Nash. Songs you want.”
His perpetual smirk falls. His eyes narrow.
“I’m listening.”