Chapter 10 Ezra
CHAPTER TEN
Ezra
I’m stuck. And I loathe it.
The universe has taken all the melodies in my head and scattered them to the wind, a thousand leaves that fall just out of reach.
The rhythm’s there, faint but persistent, teasing me, pulling me in, but every time I try to catch it, it slips through my fingers. I can hear it, almost feel it, but it’s as elusive as a dream upon waking.
I pick up my guitar, my fingers hesitating over the strings, then strumming out a few chords.
They’re not bad, technically, but something about them lacks that spark—that connection. I’m playing for a crowd of ghosts, not an audience of living, breathing souls.
I let the guitar fall back into its stand with a frustrated sigh. If I’m not going to get anything out of this, at least I can check the distractions.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I glance down, seeing it’s from my mom.
Mom: Hey, Ezra. Are you still planning on coming home for Thanksgiving? It’s been a while since we’ve had the whole family together xx.
I blink at the screen. She’s relentless, my mom. Always trying to get us all back to the table.
I’m torn. There’s a pull in me to be there, to soak in the comfort of my family, of my sister’s laughter. But with this album being so up in the air, I don’t think I can face anyone.
I type out a response, my fingers moving almost mechanically.
Ezra: I’m not sure yet. We’re still recording. Things are a little tight right now, but I will see what I can do xx.
I stare at the words for a moment, then press send. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either. Things are tight in more ways than one.
A few moments pass before her response comes in. I don’t even have to look to know what it says.
Mom: Okay, but we’ll be sad not to see you. It feels like we’ve hardly seen you at all since you left for that retreat xx.
I trace my thumb over the edge of the screen, trying to push down the uncomfortable stir of guilt.
It’s not fair to them. But I also don’t know how to explain that this me is stuck in a moment where he’s too afraid to move forward.
The sound wafts through the air before I even realize it. The off-key singing first faints, then grows louder and more pronounced. It’s so bad that I almost wince, but it has a strange pull to it.
I push myself off the couch, my feet moving before my brain catches up. I don’t even know why I’m going toward it.
There’s nothing that compels me except the sound itself. It seems the universe decided to throw in a wild card just when I needed a distraction.
I follow the noise down the hall until I reach the kitchen. The door is slightly cracked, and I can already hear the rhythm, solid, repetitive, almost hypnotic, clashing with a voice so off-key it makes me cringe.
But there’s something about the way she’s singing. Unhinged, and free.
I lean against the doorframe, watching her.
Sloane.
She’s dancing. I don’t believe it at first.
It’s some illusion, the way she’s moving, swaying, her hips following the beat with an effortless grace. She’s not just chopping vegetables; she’s in her element, the rhythm is part of her bones, of her skin.
And the singing… the singing is horrible. But I can’t stop listening.
She’s completely oblivious to how bad it is, lost in the moment, a smile playing at her lips as she cooks—the world is nothing but a backdrop to her performance.
I stand there for a few moments, just watching, transfixed by this raw, unpolished energy. She doesn’t see me. Doesn’t hear me. And part of me wonders if she’d still be singing like that if she knew I was here.
Just as I step forward, though, my foot makes a soft thud against the floor, and in an instant, she freezes.
Her gaze snaps toward me, and there’s a flicker of surprise before that ever-present smirk curves her lips.
“Caught me, huh?” she says, as if she’s not at all embarrassed about the spectacle she’s just given me. Instead, she’s got that playful confidence in her eyes, daring me to say something.
I can’t help but laugh, the sound escaping before I can stop it. “I never intended to witness such a tragic rendition of Take On Me, yet here we are, caught in this melodious tangle.”
Her eyebrow arches, her grin widening. She wipes her hands on a towel as if she couldn’t care less that she just gave me a front row seat to her personal concert. “What, you didn’t think I had it in me?”
Oh, she’s asking for it.
“You’ve got something in you,” I reply with a grin, feeling a sudden lightness that I didn’t realize I needed.
Her face shifts, and I can almost see the little mental calculations happening behind her eyes.
She’s waiting for the punchline, for the joke I’m going to throw at her. But then she turns back to her task, the game continuing as she starts juggling the eggs, the bottle of olive oil, and a handful of herbs as if she’s some culinary contortionist.
And of course, that’s the moment it all goes south.
The olive oil bottle slips from her hands, and everything seems to slow down as I watch the liquid pour out across the floor. Her foot catches the slick patch, and for a moment, I’m witnessing a car crash I can’t stop.
“No!” I shout before my brain even registers what’s happening.
I’m already there, catching her mid-fall, my arms wrapping around her.
The world comes to a sudden, jarring stop. I’m holding her. My heart races, and I can feel the warmth of her body against mine. The closeness. It’s too much, too intense, and for a second, I forget to breathe.
Her eyes go wide, and I can’t look away from the flush creeping over her cheeks. She’s caught somewhere between laughing at herself and cursing her luck. Her lips part, she’s about to say something, but I’m too lost in the moment to hear it.
“Careful there,” I say, softer than I expect, more… thoughtful.
She’s still pressed against me, and I can feel her pulse, erratic against her skin. The space between us is so small now, the entire world has condensed into this one beat.
She pulls herself away first, standing on her own two feet, but there’s still a slight tremor in her movements. That smile is still there, though, a little uncertain, a little embarrassed.
“Well, this is awkward,” she says, glancing at the olive oil disaster she just created. “Maybe I should add clumsy chef to my resume.”
I laugh, but it’s more out of admiration than anything else. She’s trying so hard to play it off, but it’s obvious. She’s obvious.
“I think ‘disaster waiting to happen’ might be more fitting.”
Her glare doesn’t have the sting it should. It’s playful, light. “You’re a real charmer, you know that?”
I shrug. “Yep. And I’m only getting started.”
There’s something about the way she glares at me. She’s still trying to hold on to her dignity, but the smile tugging at the corners of her lips betrays her.
She’s caught between wanting to be irritated and wanting to laugh at herself. I can’t help but appreciate the way she tries to keep it together.
I watch her carefully, gauging the moment. Maybe it’s the way she stands there, all flustered and cute, trying to recover, or perhaps it’s the way her eyes catch mine in that split second. But I’m suddenly more aware of how close we are.
The warmth from her body lingers in the space between us.
She’s got this air about her. A calm that’s not quite confidence but also not quite insecurity. And it pulls me in.
“So, clumsy chef, huh?”
Her lips curl into a half-smirk. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
I take a step closer, just enough to push her boundaries a little. It’s not intentional. Well, it is, but it’s more instinct than anything else. The atmosphere between us feels electric.
“Just saying,” I start, my eyes running over her, “you make a pretty cute disaster.”
She laughs, but it’s that low, amused sound that does something to me. I’ve gotten under her skin, and it feels damn good.
“You’re not exactly helping with that ‘disaster’ thing,” she shoots back, her gaze sharpening as she picks up the broken olive oil bottle and tosses it in the trash. “But I can see how you’d enjoy this.”
I take another step forward, still teasing, but my brain can’t help but wander. The way she stands there, looking so… easy in her discomfort, pulls me in a way I didn’t expect.
But then, as a slap to the face, the memory hits me.
Roman.
Roman’s name flashes in my mind, bright as a neon sign.
Roman and Sloane.
The realization hits me hard and fast, and I can’t stop myself from stepping back a little, pulling away from her even though every part of me wants to stay right where I am.
I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it sooner. Maybe because she’s been right there, so close, and for a second, I let myself forget the complicated history between her and the rest of the band.
A decade ago.
A night that meant more to Roman than it should have. And now here I am, standing in front of her, suddenly aware that she’s his past.
I clear my throat, suddenly awkward in the space between us. I can’t help but feel a little pissed off, but it’s not at her. It’s my fault for not remembering sooner.
I run a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the unease that suddenly rushes over me. “Well, I’m relieved that you’re unharmed, at least.”
I can see the flicker of confusion in her eyes at the new iciness in my tone, but she doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, she watches me carefully, her face softening just a little.
“Yeah, thanks, I’m fine.”
I can feel the tension thickening between us, almost a fog that won’t clear. Her eyes search mine, but I’m not about to make this easier for her. I’ve got to pull back. I’ve got to keep my distance.
“Good,” I mumble, shoving my hands in my pockets, doing everything I can to avoid looking directly at her for too long. “Just, uh, be cautious next time. I’m not always gonna be there to catch you.”
She nods, but I can see that sharp intelligence behind her eyes, the way she’s reading me, trying to figure out what just shifted. I don’t know why it feels like I’m suddenly on edge around her, but I hate it.
I turn away, running a hand through my hair again as I fight for a bit of control over the situation. I can’t even pretend I don’t feel something for her. But I’m not sure what it is.
“I should go,” I say, the words coming out rougher than I expect. “You’ve got work to do.”
She watches me for a second longer before giving a slight nod, and just like that, the moment between us is over. The air feels colder, more distant, and the tension in my chest tightens again.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “No problem.”
I turn and head for the door, my heart beating a little too fast in my chest.
I’m an idiot. I can’t fall for Sloane, however cute she is. It’s too complicated.
Way too complicated.