Chapter 22
Cricket Jenkins
I curl up on the basement couch and grab my laptop to work on my book.
Micah and I spent the morning at school, switching my schedule all to online classes and bringing home all my things from my dorm.
What I really want to do is change to an English major, but I don’t have the guts.
I know my father will be furious I’m moving back home to take online classes, and that’s all I have the fortitude to deal with right now.
He’s also going to freak out that I’ve agreed to be Micah’s manager. He’s not going to see it as a “real job.” That’s just the way my father is. It doesn’t matter that we already signed with a major record label.
Once I was done with everything at school, I toured three homes with River. He’s not in love with any of them, but he’s scheduling more walk-throughs for tomorrow afternoon. His excitement for moving to Willow Shade is palpable. I’m happy for him.
Micah comes into the room, his guitar slung around his neck. “What do you think of these chords together?”
He plays them on his guitar, and I nod.
“That sounds good. Kind of melancholy, though. Is that your new song?”
He rakes a hand through his already-sticking-up hair. “Yeah. I can’t get the melody quite right.”
“Why is it so sad? You usually write happier songs.”
He shrugs and won’t meet my gaze. “It’s just something I’m playing around with.”
“Can I hear it?”
He frowns and toes the carpet. “It’s not done yet.”
I stare at him, not comprehending. “You always let me hear your half-written songs. What gives?”
Micah shakes his head and tosses me an annoyed look. “I don’t know. It’s not to the sharing point yet.”
“All right. Fine.” I go back to my laptop.
“Are you writing more of your novel?”
“Yes.”
He comes over to the couch and plops down next to me. “Can I read it?”
I close my laptop. “Not yet. It’s not to the sharing point yet.”
Micah groans and stands up. “Whatever.” He plays some chords and returns to the bedroom where he’s been working.
I listen to him tinker around with the melody as I reopen my laptop and try to get back into the writing headspace. After fifteen minutes of rereading the same paragraph, I decide I’m not in the mood to write and pull out my book instead.
Twenty minutes later, the music stops. I hear Micah’s footsteps in the hallway, then he appears again, this time without his guitar. He hovers there for a moment like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.
“Everything okay?” I ask, lowering my book.
He runs both hands through his hair, making it stick up even worse. “Can I… can we talk?”
There’s something in his voice, vulnerability mixed with frustration, that makes me close my book and pat the couch beside me. “Of course. What’s going on?”
He sits down heavily, slumping forward with his elbows on his knees. For a long moment, he just stares at the floor.
“Micah?”
“I think I made a huge mistake,” he says quietly.
My stomach drops. Does he regret the kiss? Is he coming to tell me that he wishes we’d never done it? If that’s what he tells me, it will kill me. I swallow and try to keep my voice light. “What do you mean?”
He lowers his head, still not looking at me. “What if I’m not good enough? What if Atlantic Coast realizes they signed some nobody kid who got lucky with a few viral videos?”
“Micah—”
“No, listen.” He finally looks up, and I can see the fear in his gray eyes. “They’re expecting me to deliver an entire album. Professional quality. Something worthy of a major label. And I’ve never even been in a real recording studio before.”
I shift to face him fully. “You’ve been making music for years. Your songs are incredible.”
“In my bedroom with basic equipment,” he says, his voice getting tighter. “That’s completely different from flying to Nashville and working with producers and sound engineers who know what they’re doing. What if I get in there and mess up? What if I can’t perform under that kind of pressure?”
“You won’t mess up.”
“How do you know?” The question comes out more desperate than angry. “Cricket, these people are used to working with real artists. People who went to music school, who have been performing professionally for years. I’m just some kid from a small town who taught himself guitar from YouTube videos.”
I reach out and take his hand, even though touching him physically hurts me now. “You’re not ‘just some kid.’ You have something special, Micah. That’s why millions of people watch your videos. That’s why every major label wants to sign you.”
He shakes his head. “What if it was all a fluke? What if I can’t recreate that magic when it really matters?”
I squeeze his hand, warmth shooting up my arm. “Talk to me. What’s really going on in your head?”
He’s quiet for so long I think he’s not going to answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
“I keep thinking about all the talented musicians who never make it. People who are probably way better than me but just never got the right break. And here I am with this incredible opportunity, and I feel like… like I’m about to waste it.
Like everyone’s going to find out I don’t actually know what I’m doing.
This song I’m working on… what if it’s no good? ”
My heart aches for him. “Micah, you earned this. Your talent earned this.”
“Did it though?” He looks at me with such raw uncertainty. “Or did I just get lucky because some algorithm picked up my videos at the right time?”
“Luck doesn’t get you fifty million views on a single video. That’s what you’re up to now. And luck doesn’t make people connect with your music the way they do.”
“But what if I can’t do it again? What if I sit down to write songs for the album and nothing comes? What if the pressure kills my creativity completely?”
I can see him spiraling, the way he does when his anxiety takes over. I take both of his hands in mine, ignoring all the tingles and flutters it sends through me. “Look at me.”
He does, reluctantly.
“Do you remember when you wrote that song, ‘Midnight Train’?”
“Yeah.”
“You were going through that rough patch, fighting with Tobias. You missed your parents so much. You said you didn’t think you could write anything good because you felt so messed up inside.”
His expression softens slightly. “I remember.”
“And then you wrote one of your most beautiful songs. The one that made me cry the first time I heard it.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“Because…” He struggles for words. “Because I wasn’t trying to prove anything then. I was just processing my feelings.”
“That’s exactly what you need to do now. Stop thinking about what Atlantic Coast expects or what other people will think. Just write from your heart, the way you always have.”
He’s quiet, considering this.
“Micah, impostor syndrome is normal. Even the most successful artists deal with it. But that fear that you’re not good enough, it doesn’t mean you actually aren’t good enough. It just means you care about doing well.”
“What if I let everyone down?”
“You won’t. But even if something doesn’t go perfectly, that doesn’t make you a fraud. It makes you human.” I lean closer. “And I’ll be right there with you, remember? You’re not doing this alone.”
For the first time since he sat down, some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “You’ll be with me in Nashville?”
“Of course.”
He bites his lip. “You really think I can do this?”
“I know you can. I’ve always known.” I give him a small smile. “Would you do something for me?”
He looks at me, the hesitation gone from his gray eyes. A zing of attraction races through me.
“Anything,” he whispers.
I wish he meant it. I wish we were talking about us right now. But we’re not, and I force myself away from those thoughts. “Would you ask your doctor about some anxiety meds? I really think they would help you.”
He drops his gaze and lets out a breath. He’s quiet for a moment. “But I don’t need—”
“Micah.” I try to show how much this means to me through my voice. “Please?”
He meets my gaze. He doesn’t say anything. Just sits there and stares at me. Finally, he sighs. “For you.”
“No. Do it for yourself.”
A small smile crosses his lips. “Okay, Jiminy.”
His gaze shifts, and he motions for my glasses. I lean forward so he can slide them off my face.
He takes out his microfiber cloth. “I still don’t know how you can see out of these when they’re so dirty.”
I laugh and nudge his knee. “You’re good at changing the subject.”
He takes a deep breath. He finishes cleaning my glasses and slides them back onto my face. “Okay. Maybe… maybe the meds will help. And maybe I should stop overthinking the album and just focus on writing one song at a time.”
“That sounds like a good plan.”
Micah leans close to me, and I can feel his breath on my lips. He’s so close, and he’s moving even closer. My heart starts beating rapid-fire, and I can’t think. Is he about to kiss me?
In a quick movement, he leans closer and kisses my cheek. “Thanks, Cricket.”
I can’t move. He kissed me. What does that mean? Was that another friend kiss? Or did it mean more? I can’t breathe, but I force myself to speak. “Want to play me the song you’re working on now? Maybe talking through it will help.”
He hesitates, biting his lip.
“Come on. It can’t be that bad.”
“It’s not that—”
“Then, what?”
He shakes his head. “Never mind. I’ll play it for you. But…”
I’ve never seen him so shy about sharing a song before. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”
“It’s just kind of personal.” He won’t look at me. “Don’t judge me.”
“When have I ever judged your music?”
“Never,” he admits, standing up. “That’s why I always play it for you first.”
As he goes to get his guitar, I feel that familiar flutter in my chest, the same one I always get when he trusts me with something important. Maybe I can’t fix his impostor syndrome completely, but I can remind him that he’s not facing this alone.
Micah takes his time in the other room. When he finally comes out, he stops in the doorway, his guitar in one hand. For some reason, he looks shy, which is an incredibly sexy look on him.
I wait for him to start playing.