"That new regular keeps asking for you."

I rolled my eyes as Sierra, my coworker and only friend I'd made in our fine establishment pointed a manicured finger directly towards an aging bald man sat caddy cornered towards the small, intimate stage that touted the newest of newbies on the music scene in New York City, the hole in the wall bar and grill claiming to be the propellant of many a famous singer back in the day...meaning the nineties, but still I held out hope in snagging a job here shortly after moving up north and my luck had landed me the position of a server...that wasn't allowed to perform.

The servers just had to sit back and wait, watching and pining for our turn in the spotlight, when our manger (who played favorites), finally allowed us to audition to be the new headlining spot in front of a crowd of fifty patrons on Saturday night, our busiest night.

I sighed and twisted my black apron around across my waist and tugged down the black shorts that had crawled itself halfway up my ass and began meandering over to the table, eyes blank and smile polite as the man regarded me with a keen interest.

Yellowing eyes and a gruff white beard, the man surged sideways in his seat and I caught sight of a pad and pen beside his lone empty glass of what had most definitely been scotch if the amber stain of the liquid coating the bottom was any indication of what would coat his breath once I came upon speaking distance with him.

For a moment, his eyes darted across my face and, as the satisfaction crinkled the lines around his mouth and eyes, I panicked. He looked too much like my father, greying eyebrows and scraggly nose hairs peeking out of thickened nostrils, skin a grey pallor with sharp, beady eyes, but then the panic passed and he was just a man and I was just a waitress that he probably wanted to make a move on. It wasn't the first time it had happened, and it wouldn't be the last, though I wished otherwise.

"Hello sir, how can I help you?"

"You're Virginia Bruins, right? Mike Bruins daughter? If you have time, I have some questions about your father and-"

"I'm sorry sir, but I'm on the clock, and I really don't feel like speaking with a reporter or a journalist or whoever the hell you are about my father. If you're only here to ask me about him and you're no longer a paying customer, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"I-"

"V, what's going on here? I'm so sorry for her behavior, Mr. Santos, she clearly has no idea who you are. Can I get you a refill on your scotch? Perhaps a free appetizer, and we can comp your drinks as well for any trouble our newest server here might have caused."

My manager, Bree, was on the table in a heartbeat, a thick drop of sweat rolling down the side of her forehead a clear sign that I'd probably just pissed off one of the only 'important' customers that the bar actually had.

I rolled my eyes as Bree straightened her uniform so that her cleavage was on display even more so than it already had been, and within two seconds flat, the man levied her a stare that was devoid of all interest or emotion.

"Oh, quite the contrary. Miss Bruins was just informing me that she had no interest in the story I was writing about her change of direction in her life from her father's dreams of business school to this...dream of music that she has. I was going to publish it in a rather large publication, I believe you've heard of them. The New York Times?"

The air completely dispelled from my lungs.

"You want to do a piece on V? Well, she is our best server, after all, and we were just about to showcase her singing and playing this Saturday night, as well, if you wanted to come and watch?"

I was getting whiplash. Surely, this had to be some sort of trick, a hallucination, something.

For eight long, grueling months, I had worked tirelessly to even become a server on Saturday nights, let alone performing on them. So, what, this man had an interest in my superstar basketball father who'd fallen out of the public's favor, and he wanted to truss me up like some pig for slaughter by doing a fluff piece on the disgraced daughter of the murderous basketball legend?

Or maybe, just maybe, he would cast me in a different light.

The media surrounding my blow up at my father had caused two different sets of reactions, the first being that I was nothing more than a spoiled basketball princess who had gone along with my father's lie even though I knew the truth.

The second reaction, however, was one that endeared others to my plight of a victim of a narcissistic and alcoholic abusive father, one who'd lied to me my entire life because I couldn't even remember the night my mother was killed, giving my father absolute control over the information I was given, information that was false and gave him an advantage in controlling and manipulating me even further.

I wanted to pitch over the side of the bar top, vomit, and swig down a gallon of our strongest liquor all at the same time.

But I didn't get to fall apart, not after what he did to me Mike Bruins, not my father. He would never be my father again. Not after I walked--no, not after I ran from my problems like they were chasing me with a burning stick.

"What kind of story is this going to be? An interview?"

"Well, you haven't sat down and done a one-on-one interview about what really happened with your father, and I believe it could only do some good for you if the public knew what really happened that night twelve years ago, myself included. Here's my card. You know how to reach me if you change your mind about participating. Oh, and Miss Bruins?"

My heartbeat was so loud that I didn't even hear myself respond.

"Yes?"

"The public would also be interested in the nature of your relationship with Eli Shepherd. He doesn't have to be included in the interview's subject matter, but that would only help your chances in the world you're entering of entertainment. Basketball legend Mike Bruins' progeny having a fling with the only player he had ever coached, going on to win the NCAA Championship in his sophomore year and winning the MVP award? He's got a lot of eyes on him right now, and that could only help your case."

My world stopped spinning at his mention of Eli. I stopped blinking, moving, hell, I probably even stopped existing for a heartbeat, two, three, and then I inhaled and choked out a cough that Bree helped coax out of me with a sharp pat on the back that was more like a solid hit but it did the job.

I averted my eyes from hers as I stared down at the black of my no slip shoes, squishing my toes together inside of them and biting the inside of my cheek, locking my knees together, anything to keep my hands from shaking and my eyes from watering.

"Eli is an off limits topic, he always has and always will be someone that I will never talk about on the record. Ever."

He noticed the fervor and slight tremor in my voice before clearing his own throat and, thankfully, moving on.

"Thank you for your time then, Miss Bruins. I look forward to hearing from you."

And just like that, he was gone, but just like that, so was everything that had grounded me for the almost year that I'd been gone.

It had only been a little over a month's time that I had known him, so why did it feel like a sharp knife had embedded itself into my gut and every inhale the blade grew closer and closer to impaling me in the heart at the mere thought of him?

He had done well for himself, phenomenal, even.

His notable success in basketball aside, he'd been photographed with Matthew Thornberry, the man he'd stabbed in the back, out at the clubs after a few games, so it was obvious the two had mended their fences and Eli had apologized for what he'd done to his counterpart.

He'd been spotted with models, athletes, and the like, but never had he confirmed that he was in a relationship, but it wasn't like I expected him to wait for me like he said.

He deserved to live his life, just like I did, but still my fingers gravitated towards the silver song note necklace draped across my throat, the tiny diamond encrusting the jewelry sharp and familiar as I'd not taken it off once in the entire time that it had been in my possession.

It symbolized more than what I felt for Eli, and instead reminded me of everything I wanted and needed to accomplish in my life.

It symbolized my love for music, my mother's connection to it, but most of all, it symbolized the connection I shared with Eli and the favorite song that our dead parents shared. A song that, no matter how many times I listened to it on a loop, I couldn't hear without immediately thinking of Eli, when before, it had only been my mother on my mind.

So, even as Bree landed her hands on her narrow hips and turned her sharp blue eyes on mine, the effect not nearly as intimidating considering the full foot height advantage I had over her, I didn't falter. I didn't break under her withering stare and I didn't give her the information she so desperately craved, just like so many others did the moment they learned of my parentage.

The questions were all the same--did he really kill my mother, was he going to go to jail for what he did, was I dating Eli Shepherd, and so on and so forth.

It was worse when a fanatic of my father's would reach out and send death threats after the truth came out, claiming that I was only trying to destroy an ailing man who'd already lost his wife, calling me a despicable daughter and a liar and a coward and so many other names that it was hard to keep track.

It was all bearable because, after my father's attorneys had met with my grandmother, she had agreed to take hush money from him to kill the story.

My grandmother had taken the money. I, however had not. There had been nothing in the contracts about me not speaking out, though they tried, and they tried hard. A million dollars was the price of my silence, and still it would not buy it. Two million, three, then finally ten million dollars offered, and when I still refused they gave up their quest on trying to get me to shut up about the whole thing.

Newspapers and media outlets ran with the story like they were having a field day, but without me to go on the record and give a full, in-depth interview about what had really happened, all they had was fuzzy video of me accusing my father of murdering my mother in a heated moment that not many people in the basketball world had taken seriously, unfortunately.

Which was why, upon coming to New Jersey to live with my grandmother, I had immediately started therapy sessions to try and uncover any new memories that I might've forgotten or repressed.

It was grueling work, and more often than not just me sitting there, talking, pouring my heart out to this stranger that I'd come to know and care for as my therapist and while I did feel my attitudes and habits shifting for the better, nothing could be said for my trust issues, which my therapist said were deep rooted because of what my father had done to me for so long.

Gaslighting, manipulating and controlling, it was hard to see the truth for what it was and not dig deeper, delving into every spoken word, every piece of body language, searching for something that could be the real truth, when the real truth was just what was given in the first place.

I couldn't take things at face value because I couldn't, or wouldn't, trust anyone or anything with intimate relationships. My grandmother was the only one that I could actually be comfortable around and not have to worry about lying to me, well, her and Sierra, but my coworker and newfound best friend was a story for another time as the television started up in the corner and our regulars bustled through the doors for a busy Friday night.

The following night, however, I was to be performing an entire setlist that I'd had prepared in my head for months counting down the days until finally it was my turn, finally I could perform and sing away some of the heartache that had been chewing me apart slowly, achingly so.

And for the first time, when the television prompted footage of a Nike commercial with a golden tanned Eli Shepherd running slow motion down an emptied and dramatized full court, white shoes with the swooping check mark on display as his lean body curved and arched through the air, I didn't stop to stare and wonder what might have been, because what could be was only just on the horizon.