Songbird

Chapter 11- Never Alone, Always Lonely

Autumn

I first learned to sing in a church.

It was when Dad had expected us to be the devout Christians he thought he still was. We would go to church on Sundays, and sing hymns. Dad, Emery, and I would sit in the very back of the top balcony, hidden in the shadows. 

I hit no notes. I sounded like a parrot, off-pitch and off-key. No, even parrots were laughing at me. 

I saw Dad's face every time we sang. His nose would scrunch up, his eyes would fold in, and he looked like he was praying. To what, I did not know.

Whatever God there is left my Dad a long time ago.

One day after the sermon, I was leaving the church, face flushed, voice hoarse from squawking. 

Then.

That was when I saw it.

A green flyer, the bold words LESSONS WITH MISS NAT: SIGN UP TODAY! written on every square inch of the page.

Our church was not a big church, not even by a long shot. It was small, yet clean, on an empty highway somewhere near Glendale. It was a tight-knit community that welcomed us with open arms, even after they knew who my father was. 

We had a pastor who used to be in a bike gang, who preached sermons around a big, long red beard and intense grey eyes. I think his name was Richie. He passed off the songs to his wife, Natalie, and she was the one who taught me how to sing. 

Miss Nat was kind to me and defended me from my father. That was all I remembered of her. She had a voice like an angel and beautiful brown curls that smelled like the gingersnap cookies she would give to me after every lesson. 

She died of cancer three years after my dad stopped taking us to church.

I sigh, running my hands through my hair. My eyes hurt looking at the article titles blasting on my phone like a red flag.

THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER RETURNS: WHY HAS AUTUMN HENNINGSEN, DAUGHTER OF COUNTRY STAR DANIEL LEE, FINALLY RETURNED HOME?

AUTUMN IS BACK: WHAT DOES DANIEL SAY?

FAMILY DRAMA: AUTUMN HENNINGSEN FINALLY RETURNS TO LA, BUT WHERE IS EMERY?

Natalie would always tell me to ignore the paparazzo. "You have talent, dear," she would say in her broken Italian accent, "Do not waste talent on people who would rather see you fall than fly."

My eyes blur and suddenly I begin to cry.

I cry for Emery.

I cry for my lost home and my broken family.

But, most importantly, I cry for myself.

Hours have passed.

It's now the Golden Hour in Los Angeles, where the sun has not yet set but is beginning to, casting an orange over the city. 

I lie on my floor, hair a mess, one shoulder of my t-shirt slipping off my shoulder. This hotel is way too fancy, fancier than it should be, and I've started to distract myself by counting the number of crystals on my elaborate silver chandelier.

I'm at three hundred and twenty-two when a knock, single and purposeful, sounds at my door.

"Come in," I say, voice raspy with disuse. I sit up, pulling my shirt down and brushing my hair out with my fingers. I take a sip of water from the cup by my bed, but nearly choke when I see who it is.

"What are you doing here?" I ask Harley as he walks in, looking out of place in his scuffed jacket, only a single black bag hanging off of his hips.

"So I'm not welcome?" He asks, sitting down on the red loveseat in front of the city skyline. He grabs a mint from the bowl on the center of the table and plops it in his mouth, but for the first time, I can clearly see that something is wrong with him.

"You wouldn't visit me if it weren't important."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that." He looks at me, and I feel a blush coming on.

Not now, Autumn.

"How's the competition?" I ask him, remaining on the floor. My father would tell me to sit properly in front of a guest. He was a stickler for it, but it's Harley. Harley is always an unwelcome guest. "Is it like American Idol?"

There was a dinner in the lobby, an optional dinner prepared by the chefs. I didn't want to go. I don't care to know anybody here because, after the six months end, there can only be one winner. 

The rest of them will just go back to their home states, their home towns, resentful of the winner. 

"American Idol doesn't have a bunch of teenagers fucking each other over and getting into catfights before the competition starts," Harley says, voice dull. "There was a catfight downstairs earlier. Two musical theatre nerds named Ashton and Ashleigh, from New York or something. I think they were arguing over who got to sing On My Own."

"Harley, you can't tell me about this and not tell me who won."

"Ashleigh," Harley says, grabbing another mint from the bowl, "How are you doing with... all of this?" He waves around at the Roman-style pillars leading to the bathroom, the massive flat-screen TV lining her wall. "I know being back home can't be easy for you."

"I'll get through it." Harley nods again, and I know we're both thinking the same thing. 

This is awkward. 

"Autumn," a voice calls at the door, "Can I come in?"

Shit. 

Luca.

I look at Harley and he seems to brighten up for the first time, shaking his head rapidly and mouthing no! at me. I raise one eyebrow and smirk, getting up and sitting on the love seat across from him. "Come in!" I call and watch Harley, roll his eyes at me, hair bathed in burnt orange.

"Harley's here too. That's good, that's good," Luca says, leaving a trail of paper behind him, "I have the schedule for tomorrow and I have to tell you your roommates, which should be easy. You two will be rooming with each other." Luca pushes his glasses up his nose and points to the second bedroom in front of mine, right off the hallway from the bathroom. 

"I'm sorry?" I say.

"Whatever," Harley says, grabbing his bag and walking into his room, "A lot of movie nights for us, Henningsen."

I glare at his back as he smirks and walks away, fully recovered.