Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I nodded. “It is strange how we go through life not questioning these kinds of things—as if our purpose is to eat bagels and scroll on our phones all day. It does make sense that there’s more to it than that.”
“Yup.” Tristan plopped down on the couch and kicked his feet up. “God, this feels good. Hear that?”
“I don’t hear anything,” I admitted.
“Exactly. It’s heaven—and not because of the saints surrounding us. It’s just cool to be away from the tour for a while.”
A woman entered with a massive platter of food: hummus, pita, falafel, skewers of chicken, piles of black and green olives. She placed it on the coffee table, along with two waters and two cans of Coke. I only now realized how damn parched I was.
“Thank you,” I said as she walked away. My stomach growled. The food smelled so good.
Tristan and I ate in comfortable silence as we sat together on the floor of Abdul’s living room. Half an hour later, we’d made a pretty good dent in the food when he rolled his napkin up and threw it aside.
“That was fucking tasty. Hits the spot every time.”
“Best Middle Eastern food I’ve ever had,” I told him. “And it does feel good to just rest and eat in quiet. Tours are grueling—and I’m not even the one performing.”
“You and the rest of the crew work your asses off just as much as I do—probably more.”
Now that we were on the subject of the tour, I had to ask. “Was everything okay with you tonight?”
His smile faded. “Why do you ask?”
I chewed my bottom lip. “I got to watch some of the performance from backstage, and you seemed…I don’t know…a little hoarse at times, maybe?”
Tristan stared at me for the longest time.
“What?” I finally asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing. I’m just—you’re right. No one else has called me on it. I want to say I’m surprised you noticed, but I’m not.” He sighed. “Guess I didn’t do a good job hiding it after all. Did I sound that bad?”
While I hoped not to insult him, I wanted to be honest. “I’ve listened to enough of you live to know what you sound like at your best,” I admitted. “You sounded different to me tonight, like you might’ve been struggling a little. But, Tristan, you’re an amazing singer no matter what.”
He exhaled. “Thanks for not bullshitting me. I’m surrounded by people who only care that I show up so they keep making money. None of them would ever bring this to my attention.”
“Is there something going on with your voice?”
“There is.” He nodded. “But I haven’t told anyone.”
Feeling dread in the pit of my stomach, I swallowed. “What is it?”
“I was diagnosed with polyps on my vocal cords. It’s been challenging to hit the notes I used to. I’ve known about them for a while, but they seem to have caught up with me all of a sudden.”
My heart sank. “Is there a treatment?”
“There is, but it’s surgery. That totally freaks me out. I’ve read there’s a risk of permanent damage. Can you imagine? And then a lot of times, the polyps just come back anyway. They say the best first step is to rest the voice, which I’m hoping to do once this tour season is over. Surgery is a last resort. I’ve just been struggling through it. And apparently, not hiding it very well.” He shut his eyes momentarily. “It’s scary when you’ve worked your whole life for something, and it could all be taken away. Let that be a lesson, Emily. Don’t base your entire self-worth on something that could be fleeting.”
“What would you do if you weren’t a musician?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” He looked away. “The thought of that terrifies me. I don’t have a plan B. I never did.”
“But you don’t have to work another day in your life, and you’d be okay.”
He shook his head. “It’s not about that. Without music, I wouldn’t have a purpose. I’d have money, but money means shit if you don’t have a reason to live.”
Now I felt stupid. Financial security wasn’t everything. As poor as I was, I understood that.
“This situation has made me realize I threw all my eggs into one basket,” he continued. “And that was probably a mistake.”
“You might not be where you are if you hadn’t, though. So, it’s a catch-twenty-two.”
“That’s true.” He nodded.
I wracked my brain for something that might make him feel better. “So, if your near-death-experience theory is true, and there’s some purpose in everything we go through, is there a lesson you think you were put here to learn? Maybe this challenge with your voice is part of it.”
“Interesting.” Tristan scratched his chin. “Maybe I need to learn to accept failure to truly understand that success doesn’t define a person. Or maybe I need to figure out how to be at peace without success—just be at peace with myself and nothing else. Learn to love myself, I guess. There’s no way to be sure what the hell it all means.” He looked at me pointedly. “What happened with your mom’s boyfriend could have a purpose, too, even if it’s hard to see.”