Chapter Thirteen #2
I nod, smiling awkwardly. I mean, come on, this is the most he’s spoken to me without his tone dripping with derision. “Sure.”
He stands, slowly tucking his chair under the table, his fingers gripping the back of it.
“How…uh…” He clears his throat. “How are you feeling about it?”
“Kind of excited. I mean, we’ve been sounding better together with each practice. The fans will hardly realize you got a new drummer.” I laugh lightly, but the butterflies in my stomach are definitely starting to hatch.
“Yeah, kind of a practice run before the tour,” he says. “Make sure the set’s tight, iron out any kinks…” Rubbing the back of his neck, he chuckles, and the sound short-circuits something in my brain. “Nothing better than testing things out for a crowd of four thousand.”
Four thousand people. For my first ever live performance.
“Right,” I choke out.
Those butterflies? They’re hornets, buzzing angrily as my imagination starts to take hold.
“Cool, so…” He takes a step toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”
Suddenly alone in the rehearsal space, silence settles again. But it’s heavier now, more charged than before. I stay still, heart tapping out a tempo that doesn’t quite match the stillness around me as I wait for him to come back.
My shoulders sag, my hands clammy from the conversation replaying in my mind. I don’t know what’s more disorienting; the fact that Maddox actually talked to me or that he sounded almost…human.
I let out a slow breath. Four thousand fans. That’s what’s waiting for me on Friday, then a hell of a lot more when we go on tour with Reign. My fingers slide over my pendant again, nerves prickling under my skin like a thousand small stings.
One second…
Two seconds…
Three…
My gaze drifts toward his notebook, to the edge hanging just off the table, and the laptop still glowing bright beside it.
Don’t.
You’ll regret it.
He didn’t say I couldn’t.
But he didn’t say you could either.
My eyes flick to the door, and I hold my breath. He’s probably just outside in the hallway, or maybe the lobby, and any second, he’ll burst back inside.
I stare at the book again, ignoring the way it calls to me.
His words live in there, his lyrics, his songs. And this is what I do, what I’m good at. I’ve written enough songs to know when someone’s struggling. Whatever’s in that notebook has him in knots, and I shouldn’t want to know why.
But I do.
Maybe if I just…
My fingers curl into my palms, a last-ditch attempt at talking myself out of this.
If I open it, there’s no pretending I didn’t.
But I can help him, or maybe I’m just justifying the fact that I want to see what’s inside.
This isn’t a diary, but it’s not far off.
These pages? They’re personal—what songwriter’s innermost thoughts aren’t?
—and filled with songs that may never see the light of day, used as nothing more than a release, and if they’re like mine, they’ll hurt.
Yet here I am, thinking about prying them open with dirty hands.
I move slowly, each step enough time for me to change my mind. But still, there’s no sound from outside, no voices indicating someone’s coming as I lower my hand, fingers brushing the navy leather cover, the elastic band wrapped around it a protective barrier to keep unwanted eyes out.
If I get caught, he’s going to lose his shit, I know that, but it’s not like he can hate me any more.
Right?
Easing the band over the top, I pick it up, the cover spilling open to reveal his handwriting, the words messy but deliberate, all sharp edges and slanted lines. A kind of contained chaos that fits him too well.
Sinking into his chair, I hold the notebook closer, turning through the pages.
Some songs I recognize, and others I’ve never seen before.
I pause, my gaze landing on one page that’s more scratched out than actual lines, the margin filled with scribbles, each one more brutal and self-deprecating than the last.
You suckkkkkkk.
WTF. This is shit.
Really, Maddox? You used to be good at this.
I choke back a laugh. It’s so unexpected, the idea of Maddox booing himself like a heckler at his own mental concert while he tries to write amazing songs is sort of amusing.
But beneath the ridicule, there’s this…vulnerability.
Something achingly familiar in the way he tears himself apart before anyone else gets the chance.
My fingers trace the dented letters. It’s weirdly intimate, this part of him, unguarded and raw, and yeah, I shouldn’t be here, reading things never meant for me, but I keep going, wanting to know more about the contradiction that is Maddox Knox.
Closed off and cold on the outside, but seemingly so beautifully broken on the inside.
I flick to a song dated five days ago. The writing is sloppier here, rushed, like the words fought him the whole way onto the page.
Words left unsaid,
A path that led to the end,
Mistook silence for want -
Didn’t see what you truly meant
I’m sorry I didn’t feel the same,
Sorry I left you standing in the rain.
Now I live with the echo of your name -
A ghost in the silence I can’t explain.
Maybe silence sounds like hope,
But for me, it feels like the noose on this rope.
His voice lives within these lines—there’s no questioning it—too scared to be heard. This isn’t the Maddox I argue with, not the one who hides behind control. This Maddox…he feels everything and tells no one.
The breath leaves my lungs on one slow exhale. I don’t know who the song’s about, don’t know if it’s real or imagined, but it speaks to me on a deeper level that it hurts. God, how it hurts.
I ache for him, for the guy behind the guitar who buries himself under lyrics and hides everything else. The one who holds himself together so tightly, that I wonder what would happen if he ever actually let go.
Reluctantly, I turn the page that’s dog-eared, today’s date written in small letters at the top, and I focus on what he’s battling with.
The lyrics here are good, like really good. But the last verse has been rewritten at least six times. Each version chips away at the same idea: loneliness in the middle of all the noise, faking it for the crowd, a silence that lingers long after everything else fades.
It’s close to perfect, almost there, but something’s missing.
A beat. A payoff. I don’t quite know what yet.
I chew my lip again, eyeing the door once more, then snatch his pen from the table.
Popping the cap, I hover over the page, adrenaline thrumming in my blood as my writing appears next to his.
This hits, but what if you switch lines two and three? I think the crowd will go wild if you do that. And maybe instead of the last line, you sing; ‘Stuck in a cage that I can’t escape.’
I sit back, setting it down and almost closing the book. My hand doesn’t move for several seconds before I turn back a few pages and scribble something small at the bottom of that raw and aching song from five days ago.
Slamming the book shut, I leap away from the table, knowing I’ve already spent far too long there.
What the hell was I thinking?
My heart pounds in my ears, my hands shaking as I drop back onto the floor. Grabbing my tablet, I place it back on my lap and force my face into neutral, just as the door creaks open.
Maddox steps inside, his head lowered as he pockets his cell. But when it lifts, his eyes go straight to the notebook. Then to me. His expression doesn’t change, but something in the air does. A subtle tension, a crackle, and my stomach knots.
Before either of us can speak, Eli barrels in behind him, clapping a hand on Maddox’s shoulder with all his usual flair, a large, iced coffee in the other.
“Let’s get practicing,” he says, not noticing—or maybe choosing to ignore—the silent stare-off between me and our lead guitarist.
Beau follows, setting a cup carrier on the table, passing one to Maddox, then me, and immediately slamming back half of his before grabbing his guitar. I slide behind the kit, hands fumbling with my sticks just enough that I tuck them under my thighs to hide the way they tremble.
Seriously? I just had to snoop? Had to insert myself into something he didn’t ask me to when he already barely tolerates me.
Now? I’m done for.
Eli’s rambling about his Wordle win and Beau’s amp lets out a screech as he plugs in, the usual pre-practice noise filling the room. But all I can hear is the sound of Maddox flipping open his notebook, each slow turn of the page, the short pause, then the booming slam of the cover closing.
His nostrils flare, head lifts, eyes snap to mine. And for the first time since I’ve met him, he doesn’t look angry. He looks like he’s been stripped bare, like I reached somewhere no one’s supposed to touch, and found something I shouldn’t have.
Maybe…I did.
And now he knows I’ve seen it.