As the meeting with Whitney and Gael approached, I only became more distractible. I had looked over my dad’s profile more than once by now, noticing how he often took photos by a lake with an unfamiliar man and adolescent girl. These two figures were with him more than anyone else. I wondered who they were and why they had become such central figures in my father’s life. Frequently, the man who was called Hannibal Heller would tag my father’s profile in dated jokes or photos like barbeques that the two attended together. The young girl seemed to be this guy’s daughter, as they looked alike, but who were they to my father?

Somehow, a part of me suspected they were involved romantically, as in their photos they would stand with arms over each other’s shoulders. I’d only ever seen my father with my mother, so the thought that he might be interested in men the way I was had never crossed my mind. Was that why it was so easy for him to accept my sexuality when he learned of it? I recalled that my mother seemed disappointed, but was careful not to be too blunt about it. Yet dad merely nodded as if he wasn’t surprised or bothered at all. He had even been the one to buy me my Cyrus Blake posters and shirts when I was a teenager.

There was a knock at the door and Laurent’s breezy footsteps whisked past me as he went to answer. I looked up, knowing already that it was probably Whitney, Gael’s new bassist prospect. I put my phone away to be polite, nudging my wheel so I might angle myself as well as I could with my one hand. I glimpsed her straight, white-blonde hair and a pair of enormous sunglasses. Laurent beckoned her inside with a swoop of his arm, closing the door behind her once she entered.

Whitney was in her early twenties at the latest, but was probably only just an adult. She had her bass with her and wore trendy clothes, as one would expect of an entertainer. She wore a flowy short-sleeved top with thick diagonal stripes in black and white with a pair of flared blue pants. Her wrists were wrapped in a series of bracelets, some beaded and dangling, others close fitting and plain in solid colored acrylic rings. All were shades of black, white, grey, and blue.

Whitney’s smile consumed her face, the line of pale pink lipstick surrounding her flawless teeth. She brought her hands together and sucked in a breath, staring at me for a moment as if she couldn’t believe that I was real.

“Oh, you have no idea how I have dreamed of meeting you!” She exclaimed, shivering with excitement.

I could do little but give her a small wave, offering her my signature smile. She made a giddy sound at the sight of that and I felt more like I was meeting a fan than a protege. She sashayed over to the living room where I had waited, looking to Laurent for confirmation that it was okay for her to sit. He nodded, giving her a warm smile, and the two sat near me around the coffee table. Again, she stared at me for a moment, speechless, before extending a hand to me. I noticed that she held out her left, an unusual choice for most people and probably a courtesy to me.

I shook her hand, letting my smile fade into what I had hoped seemed like a friendly expression.

“It’s so nice to be here.” She gushed, “You’re the only reason that I even became a bassist. I mean, you’ve been an idol to me for almost my entire life! When your label noticed me, I had no choice but to accept! I mean, to become a musician was already more than I dreamed, but to be signed onto Phage Head’s Label? Impossible!”

My eyebrows raised. It was a little flattering, but the excitement of a fan had grown too routine to be as moving as it was in my early years. I recalled when I was starting out how earth-shattering it was to be a rising star after a life as a normal teenager.

“But uh- Anyhow.” Whitney straightened up in her seat, a flash of insecurity breaking through her smile before she buried it again. She took her sunglasses off, revealing dark and moody-looking eyes whose color I couldn’t identify from where I sat. “I understand you can’t really talk at the moment, so I brought along my bass, so maybe I could tell you who I am in an easier way. You see, I’m not too great at chatting.” She smirked tensely. “We’re both musicians, so I thought we’d get to know each other best through music! Since I’ve heard so much of yours, it’s kind of imbalanced that you’ve never heard mine!”

I tilted my head, the corner of my mouth lifting with intrigue. She unpacked her bass, drawing out the gorgeous instrument from its soft nylon case. It was an old-fashioned shape and had obviously been used for years, but it was maintained to a pristine degree. The neck and body were polished and shined like jewelry. The body had the same diagonal stripes as her shirt, and I’d noticed that she even bought strings of alternating color to continue the striped effect.

“I thought I’d play one of your pieces first, so you can get a feel for my voice.” She stated, though her voice was trembling and distant as she got her hands into position.

She no longer looked at me, staring into the space in the room.

The first notes of the song reverberated through the room, taking the atmosphere away and turning it into something new. Whitney played one of our debut songs, specifically one I had written to show off my bass playing. It wasn’t the most complex song that I had played, but it was the crowning jewel of my early years which set me apart from other bassists on the scene. She played the piece flawlessly, but wasn’t just repeating the notes from the original sheet music. I noticed different emotional beats in her playing, little flourishes and minor changes that transformed my music into her own expression. These subtle things may have gone undetected to a casual listener, but to someone who has spent their life with these songs it was unmistakable.

She lost herself in her playing, the tension in her shoulders leaving her to allow fluidity and graceful movement. It was like she was making love to the instrument; She held it so tenderly and moved so naturally with the song. Even during the louder and more aggressive rhythms of the song, she never seemed forceful in motion. Within her lived the same passion and near-romantic relationship with music that I used to have. It moved me deeply, not just because it was beautiful to witness. There was an edge of fear to my thrill, watching her shine so brightly. I had lived the life of someone who had burned out. I knew how easy it was to let passion guide you to greatness as easily as to ruin.

Gently, the last notes of the song rang out and faded from the air. She opened her eyes and inhaled deeply, as if she were waking up from sleep.

“Oh.” She murmured, looking at me with bewilderment. “I didn’t know I’d make you cry.”

Laurent’s eyebrows knitted together as he tilted to see my face. I blinked, realizing that I’d been weeping nearly the entire time. I shook my head, as if that would erase the tears away.

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“He must have thought you were doing well, right Asya?” Laurent handed me a tissue from the coffee table.

I nodded, my face flushing from their attention. I pulled my blanket across my lap, more to fidget with it than to chase away a chill.

Whitney giggled.

“That’s flattering.” She said, “I didn’t know I could move you, Asya.”

That flash of insecurity returned to her face, and now she was blushing as well. A moment of silence filled the air with awkwardness.

“Oh, this is such a pleasant afternoon!” Laurent gushed. “I’m not a musician like you, Whitney. I’ve never been able to connect with him so well as you have with just a song!”

“You’re sweet!” She swiped a hand at him playfully, her face going back to its normal color. Though, her ease seemed to die again when she glanced at me. “I could play you one of my songs, but maybe we should take a break. I’ll say it… I’m so intimidated by what you think of my music.”

I typed on my phone, wanting to reassure her. Laurent was faster than me.

“Don’t be too intimidated! He seems to love your playing!” He said, “I’ve not seen him so touched in all of my time with him. Besides, it’s been a little dry around here, musically.”

“That’s a relief! Hey, how about we have something to drink together and just chat for a while. I’ll play my song for you, but I’d like to take some time.”

“Sure thing!” Laurent seemed to dance into the kitchen. “What do you like?”

She got up and fluttered to the kitchen after him, leaving her bass in its case to rest against the cushions of the couch. The energy in the room left with them, leaving the living room a little darker. Though their friendly chatter filled the background, the silence around me drowned it out. The oceanic curtains tinted the incoming sunlight with a blue haze that fell all around me.

I pulled my blanket closer around my waist and legs to kill the coldness that spread within me.

I turned my eyes to my phone again while they discussed beverages, distracting myself with photos of my father. I clicked on the profile of the man from his pictures, scrolling for clues. His name was Hannibal Heller. He seemed to work for an accounting firm. Often, the same lake from my father’s photos appeared in his and he took photos in the same house my father did. Did they live together? There was little other information on the profile I might use to learn about him; Nothing more to show what kind of relationship he and my father shared.

Laurent and Whitney returned to the living room, each boasting a steaming cup. The smell of his spicy chai tea was nearly overpowered by her black coffee. Laurent handed me a cup of cocoa, the ceramic of the mug warming my hands. Whitney took an indulgent drink of her coffee, crossing her legs on the couch as if she were comfortable in her own home.

“I’ve never had French pressed coffee before! It’s amazing!” Whitney said, holding her cup in both hands between long, gluttonous sips.

“Thank you!” Laurent said, graciously.

“And you even made your tea from scratch! I didn’t know drink making could be so cool. You ever considered opening a cafe?” She asked.

“That might be fun, but I enjoy being a nurse a lot, too.” He chuckled, giving me a kindly glance.

It was a little lonely, not being able to engage in their small talk.

“So, Asya,” Whitney turned to face me. “How about I play one of my songs and see how you like it?”

I perked up, nodding. I set my mug on the coffee table so that I wouldn’t have to focus on balancing it. She’d already downed most of her coffee and her hands shook from the caffeine. She seemed a little more confident this time as she got her bass into her hands. Was it just my song that had made her anxious, the thought of performing something that I was the master of?

Laurent looked on with delight as she started strumming the first notes. I didn’t experience the same lighthearted joy. The song was undeniably unique, but there were hints of my influence beneath it. It was strange to hear echoes of my music in a piece that sounded so little like anything I had written. She peeked glances at me now and then, a dangerous excitement in her eyes. She didn’t get so lost in her own song, but the mood she exuded this time was just as captivating. On a stage, she would be enrapturing to watch. No wonder Gael had boasted about her as he did.

She focused more and closed her eyes for a few bars, a section that called back to one of my most famous bass solos. The intensity of each note rose and rose until the solo reached its climax, fading down with long and vibrating notes. The song ended with a gentle and almost playful series of bars before she lay the bass back down, taking shallow breaths.

I clapped my hands together as well as I could, slowly and softly. She smiled with pride, glancing between Laurent and I as we quietly applauded her.

“Oh, it touches me that you enjoyed it. It’s a song I wrote just for you.” Whitney admitted, her dark eyes contrasting oddly against her flushed cheeks. “You were the reason that I learned to play, after all. So I made you that tribute. It was the first song that I ever wrote, but also the song that took me the longest time. I started writing it when I was thirteen and only finished it last year, after all.”

I tilted my head, bemused.

“Why is it that this one took so much time?” Laurent inquired.

A wistful air came upon her, her gaze shifting down to her bass, which she stroked gently with her fingertips.

“I’ll admit, I can be a bit of a perfectionist. Yet, most of my music is finished within a month. This piece, however, would never satisfy for all those years. I had written and rewritten it probably a hundred times. I told myself that it wouldn’t be done until I could perform it proudly for you, Asya. Not that I ever dreamed I would have the chance…”

She glanced at me for only a moment before her gaze dropped bashfully to her hands, cradled within each other.

I began typing something to say to her, and she perked up at the sight of my tapping fingers, curious.

“It was an amazing song. You’re just as talented as Gael claimed you were. I’m proud to be an influence on you. I’d like to see how your style evolves.” I typed, facing the screen to her.

As she read, her face grew brighter and brighter.

“You like my style?” She asked.

I nodded, warmed by how flattered she was.

“Most people praise me for my covers of your songs, but not so much for my original work. It really…” Her gaze grew distant. “It really means the world to me, hearing that from you.”

She took my hand.

“I hope you can play again, soon. I’d love to play a song together.” Whitney said. Her gaze was earnest, her touch heartfelt.

I nodded, but couldn’t hold eye contact for too long. It seemed like there was something more to the moment for her than I. Her phone chirped in her purse and she jolted.

“I should go, then. I hope to visit soon!” She dropped my hand, sliding her sunglasses back over her eyes. She was smiling widely again, but her hands trembled. “There’s a meeting with the label I have to attend later today and I have some errands to run first!”

Laurent rose from his seat, offering her a friendly handshake.

“It was a pleasure to have you!” He said, the amiable expression on his face failing to hide his confusion. She packed her bass up and waved cordially to us both. Although she was acting naturally about her departure, it seemed so sudden. Laurent closed the door behind her, returning to clean up her cup of coffee.

I stared at the door, unable to shake off a strange feeling. Ending like that, it seemed almost like the entire visit was merely a dream.

“My, but you stars have busy schedules. She wasn’t here for long. What a shame.” Laurent lamented, his lips pursed. “It was wonderful to hear her play, though. I never listened to instrumental music all that much. I didn’t know that a bass could carry a song on its own like that.”

I gave him an absentminded nod, turning my eyes back to my phone.

“So, did you like her? I thought she was delightful!” He mused.

I glanced up at him and nodded, giving him a polite smile to disguise my distracted mind.

“Gael will be curious about your opinion of her, but I think he wants to meet about it later in the week when he has an opening.” He returned to his seat near me.

I put my phone back down, watching him sip the remains of his tea. The blue-tinged light from the curtains cast itself across his face, making him look like the subject of a painting. He caught me staring and smiled.

“So, now that we’re alone again, would you like to do some exercises or do you need to rest?”

I wiggled my fingers at him, grinning coyly. He chuckled and picked my right hand up to rest it on the arm of my chair.

“Let’s get started, then.”