Joanna’s brows raise to her hairline. “You’re a musician too?” She asks Lola.
“I didn’t know I was. I’ve always loved rock and heavy metal. I’ve been a fan ofIndustrial Novembersince the band first formed, before Karl was even a part of it. But since meeting Karl, he’s helped me realize that making music is also important to me.”
“How is he as a teacher?”
“Grueling.” Lola holds up her hands, presenting her fingers to Joanna. “See these calluses? They’re entirely Karl’s fault. It’s a full-time work schedule, and he expects me to practice in my own time.”
“Sounds serious. Are you planning on starting your own band?”
“Maybe one day,” Lola answers. “For now, I’m just learning the instrument, learning to respect it and letting it guide me. We’ll see what the future holds.”
“Is she any good?” Joanna directs her question to me.
I smile wide when I answer. “She’s a natural. There are two types of players. One is the dedicated player, that through enormous discipline, dedication, and time can learn to be a good guitar player. That’s what I am. I’m not naturally talented. But what I lack in natural talent, I make up for in grueling practice hours. Ig—” I clear my throat. “Excuse me. Lola is not like that. She won’t need the years I did to master our instrument. She’s a natural talent. I actually hate her a little bit for it.” I laugh, trying to keep the conversation light.
When I look at Lola again, her eyes are rimmed with red, and they are glassy like she’s about to cry.Come on, not in front of the camera, Iggy.
“Lola? What do you have to say to that?” Joanna asks.
She wipes the corner of her eyes. “Whatdo yousay to that? When the best guitar player alive today dishes out praise like that? It means the world, you know?”
“I see a lot of love between you two,” Joanna says, and both Lola and I stiffen.
We eye each other, considering Joanna’s words, and it’s Lola who speaks first.
“Can you blame me? Who in their right mind wouldn’t love this man if given half the chance?”
My jaw slackens as I’m rendered stunned by her words. Does she mean this? Is this for Joanna, for the cameras? Or is this what’s in her heart? Everything is so muddled.
But she is also so incredibly wrong. There are plenty of people who couldn’t love me. In fact, no one has ever loved me, not unconditionally. And I can’t tell if Lola is one of them. I can’t tell if she’s acting right now. Nor can I force myself into being something I’m not—someone worthy of her.
21
LOLA
The next morning, I wake up to snow. Instead of making coffee, I make my mom’s hot chocolate with cayenne pepper and sit on the floor next to the floor-to-ceiling windows to stare at the snowscape. Below us, every building is capped in three inches of white fluff.
I sigh longingly. Growing up in Kansas City, snow used to get so much higher than it does nowadays, but still, I love it, and waking up to the city nestled under a blanket of snow brings me both comfort and sorrow.
Comfort because I love snow and am hoping the weather keeps it up so we can have a white Christmas next week. Sorrow because I’ve always loved Christmas. It’s my favorite holiday, but this will be my second Christmas without my parents. Without my family.
“Hey, are you okay?” Karl asks when he finds me crying on the floor.
I wipe my eyes. “Yeah. I’m fine. I made some hot chocolate. It’s on the stove if you want some.”
Karl grabs a mug of chocolate and sits in front of me on the floor. “This is good,” he says.
I smile at him, and his socked foot nudges mine. “What is it, Iggy?”
“I just used to love Christmas so much. Not so sure I do anymore. Last Christmas was hard, and I thought this one would be easier, but I think it will only get worse every year.” I’m not sure why I’m so chatty this morning, but I let Karl see just a little deeper into me than usual. “You know what I missed the most last year?”
Karl sips his chocolate, eyes locked on mine, his gaze soft and tender. “No. What?”
“Waking up to buñuelos and this hot chocolate. Mom used to make buñuelos every Christmas morning and New Year’s too. Then she’d send Dad and me to deliver stacks to our neighbors.”
“What are bunyellows, or whatever you just said?”
I snort a little when I laugh like a dork. “Buñuelos. It’s a pastry. Like a deep-fried flour tortilla sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. They’re delicious and go great with hot chocolate.”