2. Winter

Chapter 2

Winter

Ten Years Later

The drafty window of my hotel suite sends chills down my spine, but it's no match for the boiling frustration bubbling inside me. Outside, the glittering lights of Paris mock me with their carefree glow, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within. Here I am in the "City of Light," adored by the masses yet utterly alone—a misplaced piece in a perfectly arranged puzzle. When did my life become so pathetic?

I slump into the plush armchair, clutching a lukewarm cup of tea that does little to soothe my restless soul. On a nearby table, I spot a pile of newspapers from different European cities, each praising my recent concerts and showcasing someone else's dream. That dream belongs to Winter Knight, the manufactured pop star, not Winter Knight, the artist who still fantasizes about playing dimly lit jazz clubs like The Blue Note or Village Vanguard. There would be far less money and fewer accolades, but at least I’d play the music I love.

With my laptop on my thighs, I flip through a lengthy email detailing potential tour dates. Each European city—Madrid, Berlin, Rome—sparkles like a jewel in a crown of hollow victories.

My manager, Rita, insists this tour will be my greatest achievement yet, the ultimate display of my success. "Think of the fans," she chanted relentlessly over our last call, her words beginning to sound like nails on a chalkboard. As much as I love my fans, I'm so tired of thinking about everyone else but me.

As I log out, my eyes glimpse a file on my screen titled TalentShowSeniorYear. My mother recently emailed me the low-quality photo, probably a quick snapshot of the original picture. I click on the image and smile wide. It’s a silly photo capturing me at our high school talent show. I was so naive—pouring my heart into a jazz piece I’d written myself while pretending I was Bixby, Colorado’s answer to Diana Krall.

I recall the moment this photo was taken, turning to the audience and smiling at Orson, who was breaking in his new digital camera. The memories flood back, bittersweet and painful. I’ve wandered so far from the girl who believed music was her world—not just a commodity to be bought and sold for profit.

When did music become more of a burden than a passion? I take a sip of tea and let my head fall back with a long sigh. And I, for some insane reason, wonder what that fool Orson’s doing tonight? No doubt he’s somewhere in Hollywood, wrapped in the arms of a hot new actress who never would have given him a second look when he was a painfully thin sophomore playing Puck in Bixby High’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream .

I don’t know why I’m thinking of this now. Orson is in the past, and I need to concentrate on my future. Otherwise, this business will forever ruin my love of music.

Suddenly, motivation ignites within me like a spark turning into a raging wildfire. Why can’t I do what I want? When I was first discovered, record executives convinced me to abandon my dreams and turn to pop music because I’d have a much wider audience and larger success. But now that I’ve made a name for myself, why can’t I return to my roots? I grab my phone and dial Rita, hoping she remembers she works for me and not vice versa.

"Hey Rita, I want to do a jazz album with old standards and maybe a few originals. And I want to go into the studio after Christmas," I say as soon as she answers, skipping any customary greeting.

Always a bit of a jerk, she laughs before I finish the sentence.

"Not this again, sweetheart.” Her chuckle grates on my nerves. “After hitting it big, I thought you had forgotten all about those silly ideas. Why would you want to take a step down when people all over Europe hope you give them a second leg before the end of the year?” She clearly doesn’t understand me.

I’m starting to wonder if she ever did.

"I want to do it, Rita. I want something old-school style, just the piano and my voice. And I’m not asking you for permission. I’m outright telling you that the London show will be my last show of the year. In three days, I plan to be on a jet, flying home to New York, and as soon as I’m there, I'll look for a producer. Are we clear? " I state defiantly, with newfound determination flowing through me like a river that’s finally burst free from a dam.

There’s silence on the other end as Rita appears to weigh the gravity of my words. Eventually, she lets out a dramatic huff. "You're gonna go broke chasing this wild dream, but if that's what you want, I'll be your trusty sidekick." Her forced agreement is like music to my ears. It's about time she's as uneasy with my decisions as I am with hers.

“Thank you for having so much faith in me, Rita,” I reply sarcastically.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” Rita can’t help poo-pooing any suggestion that didn’t originate in her brain.

“I’m sure you’ll remind me every step of the way. We’ll talk more tomorrow. Goodnight.” I hang up before she can reply, unwilling to listen to any more negativity about my plans.

Oh boy, this is going to be a wild ride. I'll have to battle against the status quo, renegotiate deals, and potentially shatter the carefully crafted image painstakingly built by people who couldn't care less about my authenticity. But deep down, I can feel my blood pumping with anticipation at the thought of unleashing raw, unfiltered music once again.

A warm, genuine smile breaks across my face—a rare occurrence in the past few years—as a glimmer of hope sparks within me. The holiday season has always been a busy blur of traveling and performing pop anthems on repeat, but this year will be different. This Christmas, I'm determined to do things my way—decking out my condo with twinkling lights and festive decorations, gliding across the ice at Rockefeller Center, and indulging in some serious retail therapy at Saks. Perhaps I'll find time to travel home, much to my mother's delight. She'll be ecstatic to escape her usual trek to see me for once.

Before crawling under the covers, I step onto the chilly balcony and watch the Eiffel Tower go up in lights. No matter how many times I’ve come to France, the sight never fails to captivate me. But at this moment, a twinge of sadness grips my heart. I've been here countless times, and so many other places, but have yet to experience them with someone I love.

Maybe next year I’ll get my love life together. First, I need to fix my career.