Chapter 21 - Tristan
It seems like I spend my days searching for Raina.
Mostly, I’m searching for her with my eyes, wanting to watch her whenever we’re in the same room.
Sometimes I’m searching for ways that I can show her how sorry I am, ways to make her day better, or even ways to help soothe her throat.
But right now, I simply want to check on her.
Less and less do I find her locked in her room wanting alone time, which is a fucking relief.
I was worried she’d drown in her depression. Or even worse. Drown in the ocean.
Even though she’s rarely in there, I still checked her room first since it was closest to mine, next is the kitchen and living room, then the patio and finally her recording studio. Although she won’t be in there unless we’re all with her.
My feet lightly take the stairs and come to a stop when I catch sight of her sitting on the couch, caught off guard by how still she is.
She’s surrounded by what looks like a battalion of battle-worn soldiers: a recorder, an almost-empty water bottle, a scatter of throat lozenges, and that thick practice log she clutches with knuckles white as a sheet.
It’s not the scene in front of me that has me frozen in place though, it’s the weight of the room. It’s the kind of silence that swells louder than any music. There’s an unspoken tension weighing down the room like wet concrete.
I take a closer look at my future best friend.
She sits there, shoulders locked rigid, spine too straight, and jaw clenched tight enough it looks like she’s holding in a scream.
I can’t tell if she’s bracing herself for a battle or defeat.
Her long blonde hair is pulled back into a loose bun, strands escaping in defiant wisps.
It would be adorable if she wasn’t struggling so hard with whatever thoughts are running through her mind.
Having been silenced after her attack has been a huge struggle. Not only physically, but mentally. It’s created such a block for her. A fear that she’ll be trapped like this forever, and anger whenever she doesn’t progress as much as she wants.
It’s a delicate process.
I wish I could help make it even a tiny bit easier for her.
I clear my throat quietly, hoping not to shatter the fragile bubble she’s encased in. “Hey,” I say, keeping my voice low, cautious. “I was thinking maybe... I could help you with your practice today?”
Her head snaps in my direction for a fleeting second, eyes sharp, flitting away immediately.
It’s a look packed with an arsenal of emotions I can’t begin to unravel: suspicion, wariness, maybe even some stubborn pride that refuses to admit she needs help.
Her fingers tighten around the log, as if squeezing it might transfer strength from paper to bone.
It feels like she reached out and squeezed her fist around my heart.
I caused this. Every time she looks at me, she still sees the man who failed her once.
Man, does it sting. One day she won’t flinch when she sees me, although maybe this time it’s because of how vulnerable she feels with her voice therapy and not me.
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, her eyes drop back to the exercises scribbled across the pages, lips pressed into a thin line. After a long, loaded pause, she nods—small, almost imperceptible, but it feels like a win nonetheless.
I take a slow breath and cross the room, careful not to close the distance too quickly. Trust is a tightrope here. I lower myself down beside her but keep a respectable gap between us, not wanting to invade her space.
The practice log is open on the ottoman, marked up with neat notes in her precise handwriting. “Which ones did Dr. Shapiro want you to focus on today?” I ask, pointing at the pages where she’s circled specific exercises. My voice sounds foreign in this quiet room, too loud and too eager.
Her hands tremble as she lifts the page, fingers brushing the paper lightly before settling on the marked drills.
There’s a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, like she’s debating whether this small act of sharing is safe or a trap.
She doesn’t speak, not with words, but her fingers draw a shaky line beneath a phrase—lip trills, humming exercises, breath control drills.
I study her, searching for clues beneath the mask of composure. Her posture still screams tension with her shoulders hiked, back stiff, neck rigid like a drawn bowstring. And she still won’t meet my gaze.
“Alright,” I murmur, trying to keep my tone steady despite the undercurrent of nerves prickling my skin. “We’ll take it slow. One step at a time.” I reach out but stop short of touching her, the space between us charged with a fragile trust neither of us quite knows how to navigate.
She glances briefly at me, curiosity mixed with caution, before pulling back into herself. It’s not rejection. Not quite. More like I’ve passed a small test.
I nod to myself, ready to learn how to strum the notes of our newest song, the one where I rebuild her trust in me. This isn’t just practice for her voice. It’s practice for us. For what comes next.
We sit quietly as she builds up the courage to work on her daily practice.
I’m almost thinking she’s waiting for me to give her encouragement when a sharp crack breaks through the air.
It’s a sustained note, pulled thin as she tries to hold it, but it quickly splits into a ragged crack that shatters her concentration.
She closes her log and turns her face away, heat flooding her skin, the proof of her embarrassment glowing bright. Her fists squeeze the cushion beside her, nails pressing crescent moons into soft fabric.
I don’t speak. At least not yet. I let the silence settle around us, thick and cloying. It’s vital that I don’t show her any pity. No amount of comforting words could untangle the knot she’s twisting in her chest.
After a moment, I reach forward, gently tapping the edge of the closed log. “Your posture’s affecting your breath support,” I say carefully. “If you’re locked up like that, your lungs can’t fill properly.” I pause, watching for any flicker of defiance or openness.
She snaps her gaze toward me, eyes hard, bristling with a mixture of frustration and stubborn pride. “I’m not some damn beginner,” she says through a tight jaw. Although I get the impression the words are meant to beat herself up than to cut me down.
“No, you’re not,” I admit quietly. “But the body doesn’t lie. Here, try this.”
I slide a hand slowly between her shoulder blades, letting my fingers spread lightly over the tense muscles. Her breath catches, and her body shifts slightly beneath my touch—a brief tremble that betrays both resistance and need.
It’s an observation I need to file away for later reflection, because I’m worried if she knows I noticed she might close herself off again.
“Relax your shoulders. Pull your chest out just a bit. Don’t let your neck crane forward like you’re bracing for a blow.” My voice is low, the pressure in my hand almost coaxing. It’s not invasive, simply a careful guide.
Her eyes flicker away, lips pressed in a thin, straight line. I know this is new ground. Trust born from trauma doesn’t come easy.
Slowly, almost grudgingly, she lets her shoulders drop a fraction. The stiff line of her spine softens enough for her ribcage to open. I keep my hand there, steady, sensing the tiny shifts that ripple under my fingers.
“Try breathing from here,” I say softly, tapping lightly against the hollow beneath her ribs. “Let the air fill you up.”
Her gaze lingers on the spot where my fingers rest, then flicks upward to meet mine. There’s no spark of flame or flicker of desire, only something quieter but no less real.
Trust.
A hint of the way she used to look at me. And it feels all the sweeter because it wasn’t given freely, but earned inch by inch.
She inhales, the breath slow, shaky. The rise in her chest feels like a cracked dam finally giving way. Then she exhales, lips parting in a gentle hum, the vibration shaky but there. The note trembles in the space between us.
The session stretches on, a slow, halting dance between effort and release. Every breath, every cracked note, every tiny victory feels carved out of stone. I watch her closely, the way her jaw clenches before relaxing, the pull of muscle around her throat with every note.
When she hits a higher pitch without breaking, her eyes widen, surprised even by herself. A flicker of something soft—pride?—lights in my chest, quiet but honest. No fanfare, no grand declarations. Just a slow, simple nod.
The ten minutes of practice are over before we know it, but she’s not supposed to overtax her voice. It’s about healing, not seeing how long she can go before breaking.
“Meet again in four hours?” I ask, voice low, cautious. She’s supposed to be doing this four times a day.
She nods, small but sure, the barest hint of a smile ghosting her lips. It’s not a song yet, perhaps a single note, but it’s the first one we’ve shared in a long time.
Three Months Later
“How did it feel this time?” I ask.
She instinctively holds her hand against her throat as if checking that the sound really came from her, her hand shaking slightly with emotion.
“Great,” she breathes out, a broad smile on her face. It’s amazing the progress she’s made since we first started doing her at-home sessions together. “I think I beat my record in holding that note.”
Watching her light up like that makes something in my chest unclench. Every day she fights to reclaim what was stolen, one shaky note at a time, and I get a front-row seat to her strength.
Returning her smile, I stand and hold a hand out to help her up. She takes it without hesitation, and I relish the brief moment I get to touch her. “You’re doing amazing, Lexi. I’m proud of you.”
“I can’t wait to get to where I can sing again,” she says, her happiness deflating. Even with all her improvements, the road to healing has been hard on her. Singing has been her life from the day I met her, and it’s now been months since she’s been able to.
I wrap my arm around her, needing to give her some comfort, and she leans into me. It’s been amazing rebuilding our friendship these past several months.
“You’ll get there.” I ache to press a kiss to her head, but I hold myself back. There was a time when every touch between us was easy. Now, every gesture feels like a question I don’t quite have the right to ask.
Friendly touching is one thing, but I don’t dare initiate anything intimate until I’m sure I’ve groveled enough. Even then, I don’t think I’ll deserve her.
We exit the side door and take the garden path to the grand outside oasis. Where we used to spend time on the beach patio, we now have mountain backdrops and grand communal areas. Izzy’s team found the perfect place for us to start Survival Records, and they got renovations done in record time.
The air here smells cleaner, thinner, edged with pine instead of salt.
The hum of waves has been replaced by birdsong and the distant rush of the creek running through the property.
Sometimes I still expect to hear gulls, but instead, I get wind sweeping through the trees.
It’s softer, steadier, like the world’s taken a long breath and finally let it go.
“Do you miss the beach house?” I ask, leaving off the part asking if she misses the town where we grew up.
“I thought I might, and maybe I will eventually, but I really don’t. I needed a fresh start.” After a moment of reflection, she adds, “I think we all did.”
It never really occurred to me, but I think she’s right. At least for me, as I can’t speak for the others. We needed to leave the place where so many terrible memories lived. Starting new has been great for us.
“It still feels like this is all a dream,” she comments, reaching out a hand to touch some blossoms that we pass.
“How so?” I want to tell her it’s not a dream. It’s the life she rebuilt with her bare hands. This label, this mountain, this peace—she earned every bit of it.
“Just how quickly everything seems to be coming together. All the financing Izzy was able to help us get, and finding a new home with such an amazing view that can double as the low intensity setting for hosting other artists once we get things established. Not to mention how quickly we found it.” She gives a happy sigh.
“Like I said, it still feels like a dream.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, nodding my head. “Every day with you is a dream.”
“Oh god,” she gasps. “Getting all sappy on me now, Tris?” She nudges me with her elbow, teasing.
Before I can say anything else, we reach the terrace table where Darius is setting tableware and Nash is dropping off a plate of eggs. Blake stands next to Keaton at the flattop grill. He holds an empty plate ready for the golden pancakes that dot the top.
“Just in time,” Nash says, wrapping his arm around Lexi and pressing a kiss to her cheek. She smiles at him, but I’m distracted by the fact she hasn’t let go of me.
“Sit,” Keaton commands, coming up to the table with Blake.
Nash rubs his hands together. “Family breakfast time!”
The word family hangs in the air longer than the steam rising from the food. None of us says it, but I know we’re all thinking the same thing… somehow, against every odd, we built this. Every scar, every song, every sunrise led us here. And I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.