Melody's Muse ✓

2. Chopin - Nocturnes No. 1 in B Major, Op. 32

I've found it easier to just handle things on my own, and I'm perfectly content with that. Mr. Carter would call me a mini adult when I was a kid, teasing me over how independently I've always acted. Although I quickly had my suspicions that he was concealing his feelings with humor. I realized I was right, as I began overhearing him talking to mom late at night many times, bringing up his concern that my relationship with her was stunting my communication skills.      

I connect my phone to the Bluetooth speakers in the car. My thumb nervously hovers over the call icon as I hesitate for a moment. I can't help but feel as if I'm setting myself up for disappointment, yet again.

Swallowing the painful lump in my throat, I bite the bullet and tap the button. Mom picks up on the first ring. "Hey Melody, how was the show?"

"It went well, I-"

"Perfect! My meeting was great too, they want you to start recording once you get back!"

I hastily begin to speak before she can continue. "Actually Mom, I'm planning to stay here for a bit. I need some time to decompress."

"What?!" I can just picture mom doing that overly dramatic thing where she takes off her glasses and clutches her chest when she's surprised.

"Please? Just for a month or so? It's a nice city, I like it here," I plead. 

It's only my second time coming to Canada, and my first time in Toronto. It's probably been my favorite stop on the tour. There's more snow than I've ever experienced in my life and it's absolutely freezing, but the few people I've interacted with have all been so kind.

"Well...I guess it has been a while since you've had a break. Will you be safe by yourself?" She's being much more understanding than I thought she'd be, not that I'm complaining.

Mr. Carter speaks up, "I'm happy to stay with her, Mrs. Aria." I give him a grateful smile when he glances at me through the mirror.

"Oh Wyatt, you're a sweetheart," mom chuckles. "Alright Melody, you can stay as long as you promise to practice at least once a week. I'll make some calls and find somewhere you can practice, and I'll help you find a place to stay too."

On instinct, I try to hide my grimace even though I know she can't see me. I knew it was too good to be true. 

It's something I suppose.

-----

I lay on the soft hotel bed wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe. The smell of the overly floral shampoo in the mini hotel bottles wafts from my damp hair and assaults my nose. Gentle classical music plays from my laptop as I absentmindedly scroll through my phone.

Browsing their Instagram, today's theatre posted a wide shot of me on stage. My long light blonde hair being my defining feature, as per usual in these pictures. The comments are full of kind words, but also plenty of harsh speculations about who I am, also as per usual. 

I go through my daily task of deleting emails from news and radio stations, newspapers, and websites requesting interviews with me. You would think that they'd get the hint after nearly a decade, but apparently not. Even though she's my manager - ahem, momager, mom refuses to do this for me. She still disapproves of the fact that I decided to stay out of the public eye and left it up to me to handle this.

Frustrated, I haphazardly toss my phone onto the bed. "No!" I gasp as my phone bounces off the bed and lands on the floor with a nasty cracking noise. "Just great," I groan as I pick up my phone, now with a sprawling crack shaped like a spiderweb in the corner of the screen.