▪️Tuesday, December 15th, 2017▪️

▪️Las Vegas, NV▪️

Crushed ice falls into the plastic liner of the hotel provided ice-bucket. The noise grates on my ears but is a fitting accompaniment to the aches in my fingers. The extra pill I took hasn't taken effect but taking it on an empty stomach was a mistake. The snack machine is the only other thing in this closet-like appendix at the end of the hallway of my floor. The last Snickers bar winks at me from behind the glass. I could go back in, grab my credit card and get the treat that's flirting with me. I stop pushing the ice button, hug the cold bucket to my chest and shove the injured hand into the welcoming depth of icy goodness.

"Ahh," I say with relief. The numbing temperature prickles at my skin and maybe it's the placebo effect, or maybe it actually is working this fast, but my fingers sigh with me a silent exhale of flesh no longer torn apart by pain. "M-m-m-m."

"I'd love to be that bucket." Neil blocks the entrance into the room. I roll my eyes at him.

"What a surprise." I wiggle my fingers and let the ice slip between them. Neil's presence is dampening the enjoyment the relief this is bringing me.

Neil squeezes behind me over to the snack machine and slides his card in. The spirals turn and my Snickers bar falls into the tray underneath.

"Damn it." The words escape my mouth before I stop myself.

"Don't tell me you wanted that." He waves the chocolate in the air.

"No." I need to focus on my wrist and fingers. I take my hand out of the bucket. The skin turns blotchy. When I move my stiff pinkie, tendrils of pain unfold and find their way into my head.

"That doesn't look good." Neil peers over my shoulder.

"I'm used to it." I lower my hand out of his view by my side and take the first step out of the room.

"Hold on there." Neil catches up with me. "Can I have a look?"

I should say no, because it's none of his business and because it's not like there is something he can do about it, but the child in me wants to show off my hurt. I lift my hand, rotate it in front of his face as quickly as I can manage and put it down. Neil circles to my hurt side, crouches, and dissects my hand with his eyes.

"You can't play with this tomorrow."

"I can." I pick up speed.

"You shouldn't."

"I will."

He turns and walks backwards, facing me. "I could play for you."

"Ha! Imagine that. A voice and bass duo. That's going to be an innovation of the year."

Neil takes the Snickers out of his back pocket and plays on a pretend Snickers guitar. "I'm much more talented than you can imagine." He winks at me, and I reconsider our fragile truce.

"I'm glad I can't. Imagine." I stop by my door and put the bucket on the floor to use that hand to take the room card out of the pocket of my skirt. "Goodnight."

"Angela." Neil's voice has urgency to it. I look up and his face is serious. He's never serious. It's a new expression I'm not sure what I should be doing with. "You cannot play with this hand no matter what you take. Even if it doesn't hurt, the damage is happening."

He sounds too convincing, as if he knows what he's talking about. But he's not me. He's not been in my place for the last five years. I don't need his condescension. "I need this gig." I blink away the tears that threaten to roll. I need him not to oust me. "I can do this. I'm a big girl. Just don't tell the guys. Please."

A shadow of something like sadness, another emotion I've never seen him express, settles in Neil's eyes. "I'm serious. I can play your set. It's not a problem." He lowers his voice. "Trust me."

Trust Neil? The idea isn't as making me nauseated as it would have a week ago. "And then I'll owe you." I raise my chin and match his seriousness.

"Only if you want to owe me. I'd consider it a donation to the fund of emerging musicians. I've been where you are now. It's hard work. You wouldn't want to screw up your hand and lose the ability to play."

My nose tingles and tears don't want to leave. It's been years but the thought of not being able to play again was worse than death then. It still is. I can't risk it. I won't. I didn't go to hell and back with surgeries and physical therapy only to jeopardize my future. "Okay." I open the door to my room. "Come in and let's talk." I close the door behind him, and he extends the Snickers my way.

"Show of good will?" Neil's not scowling, there's no spice in his words. We've been trying to move from enemies to friends. Maybe it's working. Maybe I can trust him. No. I shoo the feeling away. Trust is not the way to go. This is a deal at best. I take the bar, rip the wrapper open and take a bite as we make it to the corner of my room, past the slay bed with two prints of birds above it.

The two plaid armchairs by the window pick up the dark red hues of the raised burgundy paisley pattern on the carpet. Several pieces of paper with the carpet pattern lightly transferred onto them lie by the feet of the armchairs. Neil sits down cross-legged on the floor and moves the pages around.

"You can sit on the chair." I point to the one behind him.

"This is good." He pats the spot next to him. "Let's get it over with."

I chew another bite of Snickers, taking a moment to consider if there's any potential danger in joining him on the floor. Not finding any, I sit a couple of feet away, my back resting against the seat of the other armchair. I put my hand back into the bucket. The chocolate and the ice combo dial down the ache in my fingers. "How do you propose we explain you playing for me to the rest of the team."

"We could always tell them about your hand." Neil tilts his head and watches me. This must be a test.

"And get me fired on the spot? No can do. Any other brilliant ideas in that dark mind of yours?"

"I think they'd understand." He shuffles the sheet music with unfinished songs I've been working on. "We're like you: music-obsessed." He watches me from under his pale lashes. "But it's your choice. If you are committed to lying, I'm not going to stop you."

"I'm committed."

"Then we need a plan." He leans back and regards the ceiling as if there's a secret message written on it. "Can you break your keyboard last minute? Oliver'll never let you touch his keys. There are other keys on the bus, so it has to be last minute."

"Sorta can see that." Not the most original idea, but it could work. "Maybe I can pull that off. But you? How do you know what to play?"

"Oh, I've heard your set enough times I can do it. The guys know I pick up music like that. No one'll doubt it. It's almost a party trick of mine. My guitar's on the bus if you want me to show you."

Trust him, he said. Doesn't seem like he's lying, but I'd have to see it for myself.

The bus is empty. Neil turns on the light in the studio at the back and takes an acoustic guitar off wall. He perches on one of the stools that are attached to the floor of the bus and strums the first cords of Latitude. "Are you going to sing?"

Sing I do.

We go through my set, and Neil doesn't need to do more than a couple of adjustments. He follows my speed and changes it when I do. He's not bad at all. "You're sorta good at it."

"Man of many hidden talents, I told you." The words mark the return of the Neil I've gotten to know. "You know how to mess up your keys?"

"I have a couple of ideas. Let's see if this flies."

The crowd inside the T-Mobile arena erupts in whistles. Another pill, another cold compress, and I'm on the stage when my keyboard doesn't turn on, even though it worked great during the sound-check. Neil whispers something to Poppy, who gives him her guitar and Neil heads my way.

"Show time," he whispers into my ear, gives Poppy the thumbs up as if I just gave my agreement. As if we haven't spent hours last night practicing. I don't have movements planned for the songs I'm usually behind my piano for.

'Shortness on my hands

Along your neck

Oversensitive,

Can't grab on.'

I let Neil do his thing, and he acts like we've done the gig before. When I sing Here We Go Again Neil acts like he's the one whose hair I'm dreaming about. I'm high but it's not from the painkillers, it's from getting away with this ruse.

The audience eats it up. Neil waves his hands up in the air, claps and encourages the audience to give me, or us, the standing ovation.

🎼🎵🎶🎙️🎧🎹

As soon as the evening concert is over, and I'm back at the hotel I bury my hand in another bucket of ice and dial Mike. We haven't agreed on a call, but I can't hold it in. I have to share the joy. What could've fucked up my career is somehow a good thing.

Mike answers on the first ring.

"I didn't play today," I say.

"You got fired?"

"No, no. Neil played the guitar for me, and I just sang, and the people loved it, and the guys in the band seem to be doing okay with it. Neil sold the group on him playing with me again, because the crowd loved it. We're going to repeat the same staging tomorrow, then I'll see the doctor in LA and hopefully can play the LA concerts myself."

"Good. I was worried about you." Mike groans on the other side of the call.

"You okay?"

"Filling out the documents the bank needs for the loan, and I'd rather take another engineering exam than stare at this growing pile of copies and forms."

"Paperwork sucks." That's one of the things my agent helps me with. Nothing I do for Mike there, but I can do one thing for him, even from afar. "Did you choose your color scheme?"

"Funny that you mention it. I was hoping to pick your brain about it."

Design? That I can do. "I'm all yours."

Mike sends me some photos of the space, along with the rough plans for what the new floor plan will be like. Not a lot of changes, but I can see how eliminating the hallway and adding a waiting room with a glass partition and space for the parents to sit, wait and watch the kids make the dojang a more welcoming place.

We spend the next hour bouncing between the dojang decor, the new song I'm writing, and Mike's plans for our vacation in LA. One week is nothing. I can wait one more week.

Mike's voice lulls me to sleep, his baritoneplaying solo after solo in the orchestra in my head, and I don't want to wake up if his voice is not the first thing that greets me.