Chapter 11 Annalise #2
I take my seat as the man onstage finishes his animated performance, and everyone claps.
Out of my periphery, I notice the wheelchair-bound girl inching her way toward the front of the room.
She peeks over her shoulder at her father, her eyes wide and terrified, her knuckles locked around the wheels with an iron grip.
Nerves have her trembling, rooted to the spot.
Chase watches with cautious interest, slinking down in his seat. He taps his ring against the tabletop. Reaches for the cup of coffee. Twirls it in circles, but doesn’t take a sip.
Clearing his throat, he looks over at me. “Thanks for this. You didn’t have to buy me coffee.”
“Just returning the favor.” I grin widely, hoping my optimism will brighten his spirits.
It doesn’t.
The young girl makes it to the platform, and a kind stranger helps her up the ramp. She settles in front of the microphone, hands folded, fingers tightly locked. The café quiets, a hush of anticipation filling the space as she stares down at the floor.
Her lips part, but no sound comes out.
A beat passes. Then another.
She clears her throat, tries again. A small, fragile note escapes before her voice frays at the edges. She winces like she’s been kicked, her body curling inward.
Poor thing.
She’s petrified.
Tears mist my eyes as I watch, silently offering support with the biggest smile I can muster.
The silence stretches into a cloud of unease. Her father leans forward in his chair, his expression caught between encouragement and helplessness.
Chase exhales sharply through his nose.
Falters.
Then he mutters “fuck me” under his breath and pushes his chair back, the legs scraping against the floor with a grating echo.
I gape at him. “Chase, what—”
But he’s already moving.
He stands, adjusting the hem of his faded leather jacket, and saunters toward the platform.
The girl looks up with alarm as he steps in beside her with his hands buried in the pockets of his coat. Her fingers grip the arms of her wheelchair, knuckles pale, while Chase hovers to her left, completely still, visibly second-guessing his decision.
My eyes pan back and forth. I clutch my coffee cup so hard the cap snaps off and liquid dribbles over the rim.
Oh my God. He’s going to sing.
I skate my attention over to Tag, catching the way his eyes move, assessing the scene.
Chase doesn’t touch the mic, doesn’t address the audience. He just crouches slightly, so he’s at eye level with the girl. “What’s your name?”
She blinks hard. “Clara.” Her voice is thin, reverberating through the microphone.
Everyone watches, eager, expectant.
Chase nods.
For a second, I think he’s going to walk away. But instead, he leans in again, muttering something too low for me to catch.
Clara’s expression wavers.
Whatever he said softens her nerves.
An unreadable look flickers across her face. Then, after a long, heavy pause, her shoulders deflate and she murmurs something else over her shoulder.
A rough voice crackles through the mic. “Yeah, I know it.”
The café holds its breath as she turns back to the audience. Her voice shakes through the opening notes, barely a whisper, and for a second, I wonder if she might stop altogether.
But Chase joins in.
Not loud, not stealing focus. His steady vibrato threads through hers like an anchor, until, gradually, Clara’s grip on the chair’s arms loosens. Her voice stabilizes, growing stronger with every songful word.
“Have You Ever Seen the Rain?” by Creedence Clearwater Revival.
It’s a cappella. Just their voices weaving through the crowded space.
Clara is too focused to look at him.
But I do.
As warm coffee trickles down my fingers, I stare, mesmerized and transfixed, watching, listening, branding the rich sound of his voice into my marrow.
Songs have lungs. They breathe.
And right now, this one is alive.
Haunting lyrics roll through the café like a tide, swelling and receding. The quiet hum of chatter fades, replaced by the raw, unfiltered harmony of their voices.
Chase sings like the words mean something. Like they cost him something. His eyes close, his fingers twitch against his jeans. There’s something unspoken, something that lingers like smoke from a long-dead fire. I nearly choke on it. Cinders in my lungs, ashes at my feet.
Clara’s voice strengthens.
She starts off hesitant, a delicate rose waiting for the moment she’ll collapse under the storm. But Chase keeps her steady, and by the second verse, her nerves dissolve.
She sings.
Her talent shines.
And Chase…
God, he’s perfection. I knew he would be.
Pivoting in my seat, I look across the room at my brother. He feels me staring, waiting, knowing. Our eyes lock. Mine are blanketed in tears. Emotion bubbles to the surface, a deluge, pressing against my ribs as hot tears streak down my cheeks.
Because I hear it.
I hear everything Chase isn’t saying.
It’s in the way his voice dips and rises, how he eases into the song like he belongs there, like music is stitched into his bones.
My brother pulls away, rubbing a hand down his face.
He knows it too.
Knows that Chase was made for this.
Even after the last note fades, it clings like the scent of fresh rain. For a moment, everything is still. The calm before the downpour.
A round of applause crashes over us.
A boom of thunder.
Clara’s lips part slightly, stunned, as if she forgot they weren’t alone, didn’t realize the entire room had been hanging on her every note.
Chase steps back and ducks his head. Lets the rain fall where it belongs.
I swallow hard, gripping my coffee cup, my fingers sticky from the spill.
If there was any shred of doubt before…there isn’t now.
Chase belongs in the storm.
Finally, Clara looks up at him, and a slow-blooming smile crests on her mouth. She brightens, thanks him. Sending her a terse nod, Chase shuffles off the platform, palming his neck, avoiding everyone’s bewitched gazes.
He stops at my table, just briefly, offering a quick goodbye. “I gotta go. Take care.”
“Wait—”
He’s already speed walking toward the exit.
Bolting from my chair, I follow, swiping tears off my cheekbones, trying to catch up. “Chase, wait. Just a minute.”
He pushes through the door, falters, then pauses on the walkway. Spinning around, he releases a frazzled breath as he faces me. “Listen, I have somewhere to be, so I—”
“Do you believe in fate?”
He blinks twice. “What?”
“Fate. You know, divine intervention. Coincidences that feel too profound to be random.” I gesture at the leather sleeves of his coat, the fabric glued to lean, muscular arms. “Your tattoo. Tag has one that’s similar on his wrist. Music is his whole life.”
Chase shakes his head, confusion scrawled across his face.
“He’s been trying to start a band for years,” I continue. “It’s his dream, but nothing’s ever panned out. No one has that same drive, that hunger, that raw talent.”
The air shifts between us. Realization seems to dawn.
Hesitating, he breathes out a soundless laugh. “Are you implying you want me to start a band with your brother?”
An awkward chuckle slips free, but I don’t confirm nor deny.
“That’s not…” He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Annalise, that’s not going to happen.”
“Why not?”
His brows shoot skyward. “I can write it out for you. Bullet points, columns, a few brief essays.”
“Perfect. My notebook is in Tag’s car.”
Cocking his head to the side, he gawks at me, dumbfounded. “You’re actually serious.”
Am I?
I hear myself talking, but the words don’t make sense. Maybe I froze a few brain cells on that blizzardy night. Or maybe Kenna’s commentary wormed its way deeper than I thought.
Whatever the reason, my eyeballs have the audacity to water again. “The way you just sang up there, Chase, I… God, I wasn’t expecting it.”
Something tells me he wasn’t either.
Moonlight bathes him in a muted glow, a faint spotlight. His expression changes, shoulders loosening as he tilts his face skyward like he’s waiting for something to appear. To materialize among the sea of stars and cannonball to earth.
Then, softly, “That was the first time I’ve ever sung in public.”
“Impossible.”
“It’s not. I only went up there because…” His voice trails off, gaze drifting back to the concrete.
“You felt for her,” I deduce. “Did you know her?”
Chase remains silent for several beats before murmuring, “She reminded me of someone. Someone I lost. She looked…just like her.”
He doesn’t elaborate.
I want to know more. I want to know everything.
But more than that, I want to take the reins of this delicate beginning and charge forward, turning potential into certainty, promise into something real.
For Tag. For Chase.
For me.
I dig a pen out of my purse and reach for his hand, flipping it palm-side up, before scribbling down my phone number. “That’s my cell. Just think about it, okay?”
He angles his hand left and right, studying the inky blue numbers that gleam beneath the starry canvas. “Would you be involved?” he wonders. Then he shakes his head, as if shooing away the question. “Never mind. You said you don’t have the time.”
I falter. “I have my midnights.”
“Those are just fragments. Scattered pieces of a much bigger picture,” he counters, closing his eyes, curling his fingers into his palm. “It’s not enough.”
“I disagree. When you truly want something, you make it enough. Pieces are still pieces. You collect them, maneuver them, and you don’t stop until the puzzle becomes whole.”
I’m finally realizing that.
I’ve been stagnant, stunted, marinating in lost potential and broken dreams. It’s my own fault. I can always do more, be more, try harder. Sometimes all we need is a catalyst.
A spark.
Our gazes cling for another beat before Chase breaks contact and inches back into the parking lot. “Yeah,” he says, pushing his tongue against his cheek. “I’ll think about it.”
He spins around to leave.
I watch as he treks toward his vehicle and slips inside, revving the engine, reversing, then veering out of the parking lot and onto the main road. He drives away, the taillights evaporating. Swallowed by the night.
My feet remain glued to the pavement.
The air has chilled, nipping at my skin, but it’s not enough to snuff out the fire blazing through me. It burns, smolders, turning all remaining doubt into ash.
Stars glimmer from above, milky and glowing, and I glance up, smiling wider than the moon.
Fate isn’t always logical.
But it is, in fact, inevitable.