“I know who you are,” I argue. “So don’t tell me. I see you every day. You made this for me. You
created this… for me. Do you think I don’t understand what that means to you?”
I can feel the tension rising in his body, expanding into my own. He is still trying to resist. But only
because his mind tells him this is wrong. But his body… I feel what his body is telling him. That
nothing has ever been so right.
“I just wanted you to know I was sorry,” he says again. “And that I understand now.”
“You understand what?”
“The music you were playing,” he explains. “This is about your father. Isn’t it?”
This time, it is me who tries to move away from him. But he reaches out and halts me. Holding my
back to his chest, only closer. So much closer.
“Do you need someone to give you permission?” he whispers into my ear.
My body comes alive for him, and I melt into his arms. Pliable. I am open to anything he has to
offer me right now.
“Yes.”
“I’m giving you permission, Chloe,” he tells me. “I want you to show me what you are really
capable of. I want you to show me the girl who created all of this.”
I lean my head back against his chest and look up at him. He does not protest, even though our lips
are now only a breath apart. So close, and so far.
“What if I’m not good enough?” I ask him.
“You will never be good enough,” he assures me, his fingers coming up to touch my temple. “In
here. An artist never is.”
“That isn’t the reason you do it,” I reply.
My words surprise him. They were from an interview he did. Back in the days of the media circus
that surrounded him.
“No,” he answers. “That isn’t why we do it. We do it because there is no other option. Because
inside, you die if you quit.”
“Butyouquit.”
He is quiet now. Pensive.
“You made me want to do it all over again,” he admits finally. “When I saw you up here.”
“So why don’t you?”