11. Bea
11
BEA
S ongs have always taken shape in my head.
I used to sit, huddled, while my mom and Joe did whatever noisy and disturbing things they did. She dated a lot of guys, and I couldn’t ever keep up with their names, so they all became Joe. It bugged Mom at first, but eventually she stopped caring about that, too. Whenever Joe and Mom did things that made me feel sad, I would plug my ears and hum.
At first, my sounds were messy and unformed, like when a little kid sits at a piano and insists they’re making music.
But eventually, the songs improved. When I moved in with Seren and Dave, I would sing them sometimes, when I thought no one was looking. Seren caught me once, and they put me in piano lessons straightaway. That’s when the songs in my head really started to take shape. With inspiration from the greats, I started understanding pitch, key signatures, octave runs, and so much more.
A new world opened to me, a world I’d always longed to navigate .
But my music rarely came with words.
Words were tricky. Emotional. Dangerous.
That made jingles perfect—no serious themes meant no danger. I kept things simple. So when I sit down to form the music crowding out the rest of the thoughts in my head, I can’t help shaping it around the rubric I usually create. I bang the notes into quick stanzas, with a repeating line that should be easy to remember.
Only, the song doesn’t want to do that. Not this time.
I wrestle and wrestle with it, but it keeps wriggling free. It gets longer. It gets more complicated, and then a harmony starts to form above it. Finally, I decide that if I write it down, it’ll listen better to what I want. But after jotting down page after page of notes, I realize it’s still growing. I crumple them up and throw them in the trash and collapse into bed.
When I wake up in the morning, it’s to a very strange sound.
Jake took a year of haphazard lessons before the piano teacher fired him. He absolutely cannot play piano.
He’s horrible .
And yet, he’s playing the song I wrote, or at least, he’s trying to. I bolt upright and run out of my room. “What are you doing?”
“This song is great,” he says, not turning away from the piano. He’s taped the pages together, and he’s squinting at them as he painfully tries to press the right keys.
“Stop,” I say. “That’s an assault.” I rub my eyes. “What time is it?”
Jake does stop, thankfully, but when he turns, he’s smiling. “I’ll stop. . .if you play it for me.”
“No way.” I back toward my room .
“Alright. Have it your way.” He starts plonking down on the keys, missing a flat.
I cringe. “Stop. Please, stop.”
“Play it for me, Hornet. Please.”
I groan, but I decide anything’s better than being tortured.
He shoves over as soon as I get close, and he’s beaming. “Yay.”
I roll my eyes, but I start to play, not even bothering with the sheet music he never should have pulled out of the trash. I change a few things that I realized were wrong last night before drifting off.
“Ooh, I like that.” Jake’s bobbing his head. “And right here, what if you did this?” He hums a harmony, and it’s a little better than my first idea, but it’s clunky, so I clean up the bridge note.
“Or.” I play the new version.
“You’re a freaking genius.”
It’s a good thing I don’t need to see the keys, or I’d be in trouble every time he makes me roll my eyes. But it’s actually kind of fun, writing the song with him.
“What’s this for?” Jake asks. “It’s too long for a jingle—and don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s too good.”
I sigh, my fingers freezing. “I don’t know.”
There’s a knock at the door, which surprises us both. Other than our family, no one really even knows where our apartment is. We keep it that way on purpose—it’s why we have it all in my name. Gas. Power. Internet. Water. The lease. The media’s relentless with him. We even have two covered spaces for his flashy cars. He’s not here that often with all his filming, but when he is, we’re used to keeping to ourselves as much as possible.
“Are you expecting someone?” I ask .
He shakes his head, but he does eventually hop up and jog to the door.
I squeak. “I’m in pajamas. Hang on.” I barely duck behind my door before he swings the front door open, and I hear it.
A voice that I am not expecting.
“Elizabeth said you guys lived here,” Easton says.
My hands tremble. What’s he doing here? I press my ear to the door.
“Bea’s not home,” Jake says. “Sorry, dude.”
“Oh.” Easton sighs loudly enough that I can hear it. “Well.”
“Yep. Sorry.” Jake’ll probably close the door in his face.
“Am I wasting my time?”
Okay, that I did not expect.
“I came to apologize, because I went overboard, clearly. I know I don’t know her very well yet, and I know you guys know her way better, but even I can tell she’s enormously talented. You have to give her that much.”
“She’s the most talented musician I’ve ever met,” Jake says.
Could he really mean that?
“But until she believes it, she won’t ever want to write songs,” Jake says. “The one song she ever wrote won a contest and broke me out.” He snorts. “It’s the whole reason people know the name Jake Priest.”
“Are you serious?” Easton asks. “Then why aren’t you pressing her?—”
“I’m a complete jerk,” Jake says. “I always have been, you know. I don’t even remember a time when I didn’t piss off everyone I met.”
“Why does she put up with you? ”
“I have no earthly idea,” Jake says. “I really don’t.”
“But if you told her to try writing real songs,” Easton says, “she might listen.”
“I’ll never pressure Bea to do anything. Not ever,” Jake says. “If you’d ever met her biological grandfather, you’d know why.”
Jake closes the door then, and I slump to the floor, dropping my face on my knees. My grandfather. He never asked me to do anything.
He ordered.
It’s his job, to be fair. He orders everyone. He’s not mayor of New York anymore—now he’s the governor. He only got worse with the promotion, if you can call it that. He hated my mom worse after he changed jobs, anyway. She kind of fell off a cliff after that campaign, but she’s always been his biggest liability.
And they’re the reason Seren and Dave could never adopt me.
He’s the reason I can’t call them Mom or Dad. If I ever slipped and said something on record, on a video, anywhere. . .Grandfather would lose it. I shudder. He’s made it very clear what he would do to me if I do anything to harm his career.
Is that what’s been holding me back?
More than being afraid I’d fail, have I worried that Grandfather wouldn’t accept it if I started singing? I have no doubt he’d find it an unfitting career for a young lady, but would he really get angry? What would he do?
What can he do?
He’s threatened to shut down Seren and Dave’s inn before. If I ever let on that I lived with them, that the mayor’s granddaughter was in a foster home, he said they’d pay for it. But would he really make good on that old threat? It’s always been easier to be quiet and keep my head down. It’s always been easier not to make him angry.
But thinking about that kind of makes me furious.
And that helps me finish the song.
When I walk out, Jake’s there, watching me like he’d watch someone who just lost their job or got dumped. “You alright?”
“Fine.” I sit at the piano and start to play.
It’s right.
I can feel it.
It takes me a few hours, but I compress it all into an AABA format, and I add a coda at the end, complete with a lift for the last few lines. Now the scary part—I have to add words.
“What just happened?” Jake asks.
I startle.
He’s been here this whole time?
“Did you just write a whole song—start to finish—in two and a half hours?”
“Of course not,” I say. “It has no words, and I started it last night.”
Jake’s shaking his head. “That was amazing.”
I roll my eyes. “Stop.”
“I failed you.” Jake’s always kidding around, but he doesn’t look like he is right now.
“Stop,” I say. “You’re being weird.”
“You looked—” He sighs. “You looked possessed .”
“I’m sure I always look like that when I’m composing.”
“I know you probably need to go to work soon, but. . .” He whistles. “That was something to watch.”
“Work!” I swear under my breath and scramble to get ready, nixing the shower. After dropping yesterday’s shift, I cannot be late. But even as I pull on pants and button down my shirt, the song’s still rolling around in my head, like it’s seeking for lyrics.
Something scary is happening.
Words are forming.
Words that fit the melody and the harmony. Words that mean something. Words people could dissect to try and figure out what I’m feeling. Words that will betray who I am to people I don’t even know.
Words that could come back to bite me.
I’m too afraid to write any down, and I don’t have time in any case. But as I screech into my parking spot, there are a few words I can’t seem to help typing out. They aren’t lyrics, but they’re just as scary.
After completely ignoring him for a long time, I finally text Easton back. IF YOU STILL WANT TO. . .I COULD MAYBE GO ON A DATE.
My finger trembles as I hit send, and then I stuff my phone in my pocket and jog into work. There aren’t any extra workers today, praise be, and my shift is pretty uncomplicated. At least, until my very last table.
When I reach it, Easton’s sitting there.
There’s a huge bouquet of pale pink roses wrapped in bright mauve paper on the table in front of him. “Why, hello,” he says. “You know they tried to give me another waitress?” He shakes his head. “I set them straight.” He’s smiling.
To my great dismay, so am I.
“I told them I’m unable to select my own food, and I only trust one person to feed me.”
I offer him a menu.
He laughs. “No thanks.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“You’re not the first person to tell me that,” he says. “But you are the cutest. ”
My face heats immediately. “I have three questions you need to answer.”
“You can’t remember my allergies?” He quirks one eyebrow. “Really?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I remember your answers to my other questions, but these are new.”
“They are?” He nods. “Alright, go ahead.” He folds his arms. “I’m ready.”
“Why are you here today?”
“To eat.” He grins. “Next question.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“I heard the florist had too many flowers.” He tosses his head. “I thought I’d help them out.”
I open my mouth, but he cuts me off.
“Ah, ah, this is your last question. Think carefully.”
“What?” I snort. “You said you were here to eat . I hardly think that counts as a real answer.”
“Isn’t that why most people come to restaurants?” He leans closer, and I can’t help noticing how sharp his jaw is. How bright his eyes. “I mean, it was a lie, but you should probably believe your guests as a general rule.”
“I can’t order you the perfect food if you lie to me.” But my heart’s definitely racing, and I want to hear why he really came.
“I don’t care about the food. I didn’t come for it at all. I came to see someone. That’s my honest answer.”
“You should always answer me honestly.”
“The thing is, I want to.” He sighs, bracing his hands on the white linen tablecloth. “But I’m worried that if I do, this girl I’m crazy about will spook.” He leans closer. “She spooks easy.”
I’m for sure blushing now. “What if she told you she wouldn’t spook?”
“Is that your last question?” He’s smirking .
“I guess it is.”
“Here’s the thing.” He nods. “I’m not someone people tell ‘no’ very often. I mean, I used to be. When I was growing up, my family was kind of a joke. My dad’s not the best in business, and most people had figured that out. But now? My business does well, and I’m, well, I’m reasonably successful.” He smiles. “But I really, really like this girl. She works here. You might know her. I think people call her Hornet.”
“Not people,” I say. “Only one idiot.”
“Well, she told me she’d let me take her out.” He’s beaming. “When I saw that, I got so excited that I just had to see her. Only, she didn’t send me the selfie I asked for.”
I whip my phone out, and sure enough, he texted me back. Eleven times. I close my eyes and shake my head. “I was working.”
“I knew that,” he says. “So I thought, why not show up here and see that gorgeous face in person.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re ridiculous?” I drop my voice to a hiss. “Most people can’t afford to come here once a month. You should not be coming this often.”
“You’re lucky. Your new admirer could come here every day and it wouldn’t make a difference to him.”
“You’d probably get fat though,” I say. “And then you’d have no chance. I’m shamelessly interested in your six pack.”
“You are?” The corner of his mouth turns up. “I might need to get a video of you saying that. You know, for my sister. She insists my stomach is not very impressive, but if you like it. . .”
Oh, no. I can’t believe I said that once. There’s no way I’d repeat it. And if Emerson saw it, I would die. “ No, I mean, if you—if I thought.” I inhale and shake my head. “Never mind.”
“I’m not sure I can let that one slide,” he says. “Maybe I should take you to the beach on our date. Put this stomach on display and see what you think.”
“Stop,” I say.
“Look, when you’re fighting an uphill battle, you need every advantage you can get.”
“A battle?”
“Love’s a battlefield, baby—surely you’ve heard that.”
“Baby?”
“I heard it.” He cringes. “Look, not every swing is a hit.”
“But three strikes and you’re out,” I say. “And that was?—”
“Don’t say it was three. One, maybe.” He zips his mouth closed.
I laugh. “I’ll be back in a moment with your appetizer, sir. I’ve got other tables to check on.”
“I’ll be here, making sure your flowers don’t get stolen.”
He’s utterly absurd, but he’s growing on me. Which he shouldn’t be. We’re a terrible match, but apparently this day is about me doing all the things that usually scare me.
A few moments later, when I circle back around and drop off his appetizer, Easton frowns mightily. “Really?”
“What?” I tilt my head.
“Did I make you mad?” He looks at his plate forlornly. “ Broccoli ?”
“It’s called angry broccoli,” I say. “And it has a bit of a kick. Brace yourself.”
“Unless it has a bit of a completely-different-food underneath it, color me disappointed. ”
“You did show up unannounced,” I say. “And you’re being a bit of a pain.”
“Ah, so this is a punishment appetizer.”
“It’s not even an appetizer,” I whisper. “It’s a side .”
“But last time, at least I got the hipster fries.”
“Last time, you were being less annoying.” I shrug. “Eat it or you risk offending your waitress.”
He pokes it. “How bad is that, really? Just offending her? Or, like, would not eating it downright tick her off?”
“Just try a bite, little boy, or I’ll send you to bed with no dinner.”
He sighs, but he saws off a smallish chunk and pops it in his mouth. He chews, chews, and swallows. “It’s not a homerun,” he says, “but it’s not a total disaster.”
“Since you seem very very opposed to broccoli, I guess I’ll take it.”
“You know, if my mom saw me here, she’d say I must really like you. When I was a kid, she couldn’t get me to eat a single bite of the stupid little trees. That’s what I called them.”
But when I circle back around with his meal, the entire plate’s clean. “Did you throw it in a plant or something?” I ask. “Or flush it? I’m pretty sure our toilets can’t handle that. I’d like a little warning if it’s going to back up. I can tell Harv who to bill.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says. “I imagine your toilets here are pretty powerful.”
“You didn’t really flush it, did?—”
“Relax,” he says. “I ate all of it so that when you meet my parents, you can tell them about what I did to impress you.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not even a little bit,” he says. “Trust me. Nothing would tell them how much I like you more than my willingness to choke down broccoli.”
I’m laughing as I start to walk off.
“Wait. You didn’t tell me what this is.”
“It’s the burger from the first night,” I say. “You’ve been a pretty good sport about everything. I figured after getting stuck with broccoli, you should get something you really like.”
“But it’s the same thing I already had.”
“You’re a problem child.” I shake my head.
“How about this?” He points at the empty seat. “You eat this with me, and then you can bring me something else.”
“But you’ll have to wait even longer, and I can’t afford to sit down and share a meal.”
He hands me the burger. “Just take a bite every time you come by.”
Our fingers brush when I take it—can’t leave him hanging, plus I’m starving—and my heart lurches. “Fine. Just one.” But it’s a big bite, and the burger’s even better than I remembered. I close my eyes. “Man, that’s good,” I finally say.
I grab my second bite a few minutes later after I drop off another round of drinks for the table next to him. And when his pork chop with Portuguese clams is ready, I get a third. “This is kind of fun,” I admit.
“Really?” he asks. “Because this girl I like works nights, so I’m kind of always free. I could do this every night.”
I press a finger to his mouth. “Don’t even think about it.”
His eyes light up and he looks at my finger as his mouth curves into a half-grin.
I yank my hand away and wipe it on my apron .
“You sure about that?” He hands me the burger again.
By the time he’s finally done eating, it’s time for my shift to end.
“How about it?” he asks. “Stick around and eat dessert with me?”
I already told him I’d go on a date. How much worse is eating a dessert with him? Still, I feel like I have to ask for permission. “Lemme make sure it’s okay.”
It takes me a minute to track down the manager.
“Your boyfriend—who keeps coming and buying all kinds of things—wants you to finish your shift by eating with him? Food he’ll be paying for?” My manager Phil rolls his eyes. “Go ahead. Do it every night if he wants.” As I walk off, I hear him swear under his breath and mutter, “I miss the honeymoon stage of dating.”
A moment later, I carry out two strawberry arnaud lookalikes.
“What’s this?” Easton asks.
“Have you ever heard of the Strawberry Arnaud?” I ask.
“Should I have heard of it?”
I set his down in front of him, and then I walk around and sit across from him. It’s strange. . .and kind of amazing. “This famous restaurant in New Orleans offered it for a while. It was a million dollar—or three million, I suppose—dollar dessert.”
“It was—what?” His eyes bulge. “Did we really need two?”
“Relax,” I say. “The guy I’m dating says we can eat here every night.” I can’t help my grin.
“I mean, how many million is it?” He looks a little sick. I can’t tell whether he’s playing along, or whether he’s nervous .
“This one’s twenty dollars,” I say. “But it doesn’t come with any hidden extras.”
He exhales dramatically.
“When you read on the restaurant’s menu about the dessert, it goes on and on about the fine Louisiana strawberries, the port wine reduction sauce, and the creamiest ice cream.” I point at the desserts I brought. “This one has all of that. Ice cream, strawberries, and a port wine reduction infused with citrus.”
His brow furrows.
“But the famous one came with a massive diamond engagement ring, and for a while it was a pretty famous way to propose if you were, you know, uber rich.”
“Are you trying to send me a message?” He arches one brow.
“No way,” I rush to say. “I just love strawberries, and I’ve always wanted to try this.”
He laughs. “I’m kidding, Bea. Calm down.”
But actually, as I sit there eating ice cream and strawberries, I’m the opposite of calm. For the first time in a very, very long time. . .I’m hopeful. Things in my life are scary, but they’re also exciting.