Page 45 of The Invisible Roommate

“You sounded like the best person to me a minute ago,” she said.

“I was only playing around.” His gaze roved back to her face.

“What some people who train for a lifetime would give to have an ounce of what you do when you’re only playing around.” Her wispy eyebrows rose.

Sometimes, there was this misconception that chart-topping musical artists lucked into success with raw talent, which Gerard didn’t understand. Emory would have explained it better, but Gerard was certain there wasn’t some sequence in his DNA that made him capable of composing melodies or singing harmonies better than the next guy.

Having musical abilities, to him, was a bit like being handed a cardboard box with a fallen baby bird scraped off the pavement inside; the possibility for flight existed, but without patience and nurturing and sacrifice, it wasn’t probable. In fact, it would be much easier to let the poor thing die than suffer the pains of becoming.

Gerard, however, became.

Became maybe too much, too quickly, too close to the sun.

After heartbreak and a life-changing diagnosis, he learned his wings might’ve been formed from beeswax all along.

“I was like you once,” Regina said, “afraid for my voice to be heard.”

“I’m not afraid,” Gerard said. Would a person who was afraid to be heard get onstage in front of eighteen thousand screaming fans?

Skepticism etched half circles beside her already-wrinkled mouth. “In practice, you sing, but you don’t sing out.”

“I’m blending. It’s a choir,” he protested.

She bobbled her head. “It doesn’t sound like blending to me. It sounds like hesitance, a hesitance I didn’t hear when I was listening to you just now.”

“Maybe I hold back sometimes,” he admitted. “I don’t want to overpower anyone else. Every voice deserves to be heard.”

“I think yours deserves to be heard on this song.” She flicked the corner of his sheet music.

“Is it really fair for you to be picking favorites before you even hear all the auditions?” Gerard asked.

“Solos are always put up for a vote by the group,” she said. “I still think they’d all agree with me.”

“How do you know?” he asked, wishing this conversation would end. Being singled out always embarrassed him, even when he was being singled out for a good reason.

“They all have ears.” She smiled. “My late husband and I used to make music together. It started as something meant just for us, and I wanted to keep it that way for the longest time, but my husband told me that holding back talent was an act of selfishness. That gifts, especially gifts from God, were meant to be shared. Speaking of which, I make a mean casserole and an even meaner pie. I have both cooling back at the house. Would you share them with me?”

“Pumpkin?” he asked warily.

“Apple,” she said, as if she knew about his aversion to the ubiquitous baked good of the season.

“That’s really nice, but I should probably get back to—” Once again, he halted before he said the wrong thing. “Actually, I’d love to.”

Regina’s slow pace as they walked back gave Gerard time to concoct a strategy to get a message to Emory about his change of plans. When the house came into view, he said, “Let me run up and set my guitar down.”

She waved him off. “Bring it in.”

He suppressed a sigh. “I’m really not dressed for dinner. At least let me go up and change into something nicer.”

“It’s my dining room, not the Plaza Hotel. I promise not to impose a jacket policy,” she said with a snort-laugh. His well of excuses ran dry.

Gerard’s eyes snagged on the upstairs apartment door as if he were telepathically sending his apologies. Maybe Emory was such a good scientist he could decode brain waves or energies or whatever.

Upon entering the main house, Regina led him through the sitting room this time. Gerard noticed a prominently placed grand piano. His glee must’ve been audible because he could hear the smile in her voice when she said, “Isn’t it a beautiful instrument?”

“Incredible.” He glided toward it.

“Do you play?” she asked.