Chapter 10 Annalise #2
Chase sets the guitar on his lap and scrubs a hand down his face. “Yeah. That was a catastrophic misfire. I’m sorry. That night was a domino effect of shit luck and bad choices. And I just…” He trails off, looking wrecked, embarrassed. “The details don’t matter. There’s no excuse.”
Tag sips from his beer, studying Chase with equal parts curiosity and distrust. “Can’t say it was all bad luck.”
I stare straight ahead and slouch back, hoping I’m at least partially invisible. A subtle hologram.
“How’s that?” Chase wonders.
“You happened to steal the one car that had my sister in it.”
Another wash of silence blankets the room, making me feel itchy.
I know what my brother is implying; I’m an empath, a forgiver, a believer in human beings and the inherent goodness in them. He knows anyone else would have done things differently. Chase would likely be behind bars right now. Possibly dead.
I think Chase knows that too.
“So,” Tag exhales, straightening like he’s bracing for impact. “Since I’ve been roped into this weird-ass kumbaya session, let’s see if you can actually play.”
“I can play.” Chase’s gaze flicks to me.
Our eyes tangle, charged with something unspoken. A quiet understanding, a shared pulse of possibility. There’s something in him I recognize. A flame, left dormant for too long.
I twist around, snatching up one of Tag’s acoustic guitars from where it rests against the wall. A Martin—his pride and joy, the one he scraped and saved for.
Without hesitation, I hand it to Chase.
“Seriously?” Tag bristles. “That’s my baby.”
“Your baby will be fine.”
Chase palms the neck and takes the rusty orange pick I hand him. “What’s that?” He nods at the notebook smooshed between my knees.
“It’s my book of midnights.”
He studies me for a long beat, his bangs fallen into his eyes. “What’s with the midnight theme?”
“Taylor has her midnights. So do I.”
“Taylor? Is that a guitar reference?”
I gawk at him like he’s been living in a hermitage for several centuries.
“Taylor Swift. I’m always working during the day, so this is my time for hobbies and stuff that feeds the soul.
My late-night musings. Tag and I started the tradition a few years back when we both realized we didn’t sleep normal human hours. ”
“When do you sleep?”
“A little here and there. Lots of naps. I function well on little sleep.”
He hums under his breath. “And you want to be a lyricist?”
I pull my feet up on the couch until I’m cross-legged. “That would be cool. Right now it’s just an ununified jumbling of random words. There’s no real connection or underlying story to any of it. A lot of haikus. More poetry than anything.”
Despite my brush off, I see the light in Chase’s eyes flicker to life, his interest piqued.
“It’s nothing, really.” My skin flushes. “Everyone has their thing.”
He holds my stare, then blinks a few times, squeezing his eyes shut as he rubs at his forehead.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, just a headache. Still on a few pain meds. They’ve been messing with me.” He blows out a breath, clears his throat. “What do you want me to play?”
“What do you know?” Tag chugs down the rest of his IPA and leans forward. “Anything but ’60s doo-wop, for the love of God.”
“That’s offensive,” I grumble.
“I know a lot. ’90s rock, ’80s hair metal, some new-age folky stuff. Pearl Jam, CCR, Fleetwood Mac, the Beatles—”
“Beatles. ‘I Am the Walrus’ is gold.” Perking up, I curl my fingers around the wrinkled notebook and stretch a smile. “It’s kind of like if I pieced all my gibberish together and made a song out of it.”
“While tripping on LSD,” Tag adds.
Chase’s lips twitch—a semi-smile.
He goes quiet for several seconds, plucking at the strings, his features softening with focus, earnestness.
Then he starts to play.
I recognize the song after a few indicative chords: “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.”
Long fingers move with a gentle precision, his gaze engrossed in the strings, lost in the music.
The melody winds through the room like blue smoke, haunting in its simplicity.
My brother hums a verse under his breath, jumping in, strumming along on his backup guitar—a cheap model handed down to him from our late grandfather. The catalyst for his dreams.
These are the moments I wish I could play.
I’ve never bothered to learn guitar. My favorite instrument is my voice.
Inhaling a breath, I let the song flow through me, melancholy lyrics spilling free when the guys reach the first bridge.
Chase lifts his head, pulling his attention off the guitar and slowly panning his gaze toward me. He watches me sing. Neither of us misses a beat as our eyes hold, the room dissolving around us, only plinking strings and moody notes piercing the heavy air.
The three of us move on to a new song. Tag’s voice grows louder, fusing with mine. His isn’t as clean. It’s raspy and flawed, a contrasting balance. Our harmonies blend in imperfect unison as Chase continues to weave chords into a spell.
We run through one more classic, a poignant feeling in my gut, swirling and spinning.
When the guitars grow quiet and last notes fade, I can’t stop the giddy grin from spreading across my face. “Hello, magic.”
My brother refuses to acknowledge it. He looks over at Chase, his eyes less wary but still dubious. “Do you sing?”
Chase finally pulls his focus off me, a slow-motion withdrawal. “I mostly just play.”
“Why don’t you sing?” I inch forward on the couch until our knees touch. “I’d love to hear you.”
“Maybe another time.”
I study him, the way his body tenses, his leg bobbing again. Something tells me it’s more than nerves. “Okay. I get it.”
“Gonna make some food,” Tag says, standing from the couch and discarding his guitar. “Want anything?”
He addresses me only; I decline.
As the sound of footsteps taper off, I swivel toward Chase, the energy in the room still palpable, frenetic. His gaze glows with renewed passion, a luster I haven’t seen yet. He’s always looked so jaded and locked away. The metal bars over his eyes begin to disintegrate.
“What are you even doing?” I murmur, my voice barely reaching a whisper.
His puzzled expression makes me realize I’ve given him no context.
I shake my head. “I mean, with your life. With everything. You have so much talent…the way you play, the guitars you’ve built.
If you can sing even half as well as you—”
“I can’t.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He shifts, uneasy. Not because of me, but because of what I’m saying. Because of everything he’s not reaching for. If it were me, I’d chase it until my legs gave out. Run like I was on fire and never stop, not until I burned. Burned alive or burned bright. Either way, it would be worth it.
Chase presses his elbows to his thighs and looks down at the floor. “And you?”
“What about me?”
He reaches for the notebook resting between us and starts thumbing through the pages. Settling on a page featuring a recent poem, I watch his eyes scan the smudged ink, the random doodles, the little pieces of my heart wrapped up in em dashes, dotted i’s, and metaphors.
I’m no good with numbers, but I can measure the weight of empty pages
I can count the beats between heartache and hope
One, two, three
The bridge between what is and what could be
His eyes lift, embers igniting among the golden flecks. “If we’re on the topic of untapped potential, I have a few thoughts I can add.”
I scoff, snatching the notebook from his grip. “That’s different. I can carry a tune and write haikus. Not exactly a recipe for a lifelong career.”
“Says who? You?” His eyes are heavy. “Who are you to stand in the way of your own dreams?”
His words rattle me.
I blink at him, tongue-tied, my chest inflating with a volley of responses I can’t seem to expel.
A frown creases his brow, and he ducks his chin. “Sorry. That wasn’t my place.”
“No, it’s fine. I hear you.”
I do hear him. The hypocrisy echoes loud and clear. The double standard of it all.
But this is different; Chase’s dreams are within reach, career-worthy and life-changing.
Mine are buried in overtime and back-to-back shifts, where the clatter of dishes and the endless call for orders stifle any room for ambition.
My dreams don’t fit between refilling water glasses and balancing trays.
They aren’t bright enough to outshine Alex’s impossible standards and short fuse as he stands over the line, splotchy-faced and sharp-tongued.
Anything worth fighting for feels smothered by the exhaustion clinging to my bones.
My cheeks grow warm, my eyes scratchy.
I dig my palms into the spiral coils of my notebook, leaving red marks behind.
“My boyfriend…he’s not overly supportive.
Says I need to grow up, that my head is in the clouds.
He’s been running a restaurant since most people were still figuring out what they wanted to be, while I’m pouring myself into things that don’t pay the bills.
These moments, these midnights, they’re all I have right now. All I can afford.”
This seems to fire him up again. “Your boyfriend doesn’t support you?”
“No, he does.” I try to backpedal, my pulse running away from me.
“He does, in all the ways that count. We’ve been together for years, been friends since we were kids.
He’s always been with me. It’s just…this…
” I hold up the notebook. “There isn’t room for this in our lives right now.
Not in the capacity you’re talking about. ”
His gaze is hooded as he stares at me, unblinking. “That’s tragic, Annie.”
Pressure throbs behind my eyes, and my heart feels like a ninety-pound dumbbell floating in my chest. With a sharp breath, I release the notebook and swipe my hands down my thighs.
“It is what it is. I’m okay with where I’m at.
” We’re getting off track, edging toward the deep end, and I’m not ready to drown him with my complicated relationship history. Biting my lip, I glance up. “Are you?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “No.”
We stare at each other in charged silence. Something trembles inside me. A fault line cracking.
Before I can reply, Chase rises from the couch, setting aside the guitar. “I’m going to head out,” he says.
“Right. Yeah, it’s late.” Standing with him, I fiddle with the sleeves of my blouse, wishing the session wasn’t over so soon.
We didn’t get to write or compare notes.
We compared ghosts instead. “Um…you should stop by the café next week. The first Thursday of the month is open mic night. Anyone is invited to take the stage.”
He pauses, case in hand. “Are you going to sing?”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I might.”
“I’ll see you there.”
I watch as he hauls his guitar forward and trudges up the staircase, favoring his left leg, and disappears without another word.
I’m still zoned out, marveling at the stairwell, when Tag returns with a plate of bubbly pizza rolls.
He stuffs one into his mouth and promptly curses when it scalds the crap out of his tongue.
He spits it back out. “The felon has left the building?”
I snap out of the daze and gift him with another glare. “You were an ass.”
“Better than being a felon. I should’ve pressed charges.”
“That’s a lie, and you know it. I saw the way you watched him play. You heard what I heard.”
“Mm.” Tag narrows his eyes at the piping hot rolls as a cloud of steam billows from the plate. Then he peers over at me, an earnestness filling his gaze, curling with shadows. “You’re playing with fire, Annalise.”
I swallow hard. Don’t respond.
My eyes track my brother as he takes a seat on the couch and reaches for his Martin, strumming the strings with calloused fingertips.
He’s wrong.
The only fire I’m playing with is the one inside me.