Chapter 19
Nineteen
“So you’re really gonna play for me?” I ask, following Ryder into the practice room.
“That’s what you wanted, right?”
I cheer, lifting onto the balls of my feet. “Yay.”
Ryder laughs. “Well, that was a bit cute.”
My blush intensifies swiftly.
Ryder moves across the room, passing his keyboard and tracing the cracks on its side.
My stomach tightens. “Ryder,” my voice trembles. “I’m sorry, I…”
Ryder looks up and double takes at me. Realization hits his face when his gaze follows his hand on the keyboard.
“Check it out,” he says, sitting on the bench and playing a simple scale. “It still works perfectly.”
I sigh out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Oh wow. I’m so glad it still sounds good.”
A guilty smile crosses Ryder’s lips. “Just like you said it would.”
“I still feel awful about this.”
There’s teasing in Ryder’s voice. “You can’t help how desperate you were to hear me play.”
I give him a displeased look.
Ryder chuckles to himself, fingering the keys. “Okay, if I turn up at the recording booth with the keyboard in this condition, I’d get massive side-eye,” Ryder admits. “But Chase has already hooked us up with a new keyboard for the showcase.”
I groan with aggravation. “After all the crap he gave me about damaging this one, he just goes and gets a new one? Freaking rich kids!”
Ryder smirks, seemingly enjoying my frustration. “Tell me about it.”
I narrow my gaze at him. “And you thought I was one of them?”
“Hey, I still don’t know your net worth.”
“Neither do I. I’m either coming into an inheritance, or selling my parents’ home and business will pay for mortgages or legal fees or something else I don’t know about.”
Ryder winces. “Sounds like a middle-class problem, not an Ashworth elitist problem.”
I smile proudly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, I guess?”
I lean in and tap two of the keys. “So, do you play the keyboard often? On the tracks I’ve heard, you seem to be on the guitar.”
“It’s mostly guitar,” he replies, placing both hands on the keys and playing a melody. “But sometimes a song calls for a piano. When I was solo, I’d play it more often.”
“Can you play one of your solo songs?”
As if on cue, Ryder’s hand slips, and the wrong note has us both grimacing.
“Sorry.” He shakes out his hand. “Let me try again.”
He repositions his fingers on the keys and starts over. This time he makes it through the opening melody, and when he sings, his voice comes in soft and tentative.
But three lines in, his fingers fumble, his voice catches mid-word, and the lyric comes out garbled.
He stops completely, his shoulders bunching with tension. “Dang it.”
“It’s okay,” I say gently. “Keep going.”
He tries again, getting further this time. When he’s almost through the first verse, his left hand misses its mark entirely, and he loses his place. The singing stops as he tries to recover the melody, but it’s too late. The flow is broken.
“This is ridiculous.” Frustration bleeds into his voice. “I wrote this song. I should be able to play it.”
“You can do it.” I keep my tone soft and encouraging. “You’re so talented, Ryder. Just take your time.”
He takes a breath, his jaw tight. “One more try.”
This attempt is worse. His voice wavers with uncertainty, and he’s second-guessing every note. When his hands collide, trying to reach the same keys, he slams his palms flat against the keyboard in defeat.
“I can’t.” The words come out sharp with self-directed anger. “I haven’t played this song in months, and it shows.”
“Hey, it’s okay. Don’t give up.”
He runs both hands through his hair, and his dark eyes fill with frustration when they meet mine. “I’m too in my head. Ugh. I’m always too in my head.”
I hover near his shoulder, unsure how to help.
“Come here,” he says, his voice quieter now. He shifts on the bench, making room.
“What?”
“Sit with me.” He pats the space beside him. “I have an idea.”
My heart hammers as I settle onto the bench next to him, our shoulders brushing together.
Ryder takes my right hand and gently positions it over the higher keys. “You play this hand, so I have one less thing to think about.”
I laugh nervously. “Ryder, I don’t know how to play the piano.”
“It’s easy. I’ll show you.” His hand covers mine, guiding my fingers to four specific keys. “It’s just these four notes, over and over. A pattern.”
He presses my fingers down in sequence—one, two, three, four—and the notes ring out clear and simple.
“See? Like this.” He moves my hand again, creating a gentle, repeating melody. “Just keep that going. That’s all you have to do.”
“Just these four?” My voice comes out smaller than intended. I’m hyperaware of how close he is, and how his hand completely engulfs mine.
“Just those four.” He guides me through the pattern three more times until my fingers remember it. “Think you’ve got it?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Okay.” His hand slides away from mine, moving to the lower keys. “Start whenever you’re ready.”
I press the first key. Then the second. Third. Fourth. Back to the first. The simple melody fills the practice room, and after a few repetitions, Ryder’s left hand joins in with deeper, richer chords that support my higher notes.
Together, we create something whole.
Then he starts to sing.
His voice comes in soft and intimate, so close I can feel the vibration of it. And this time, with our shoulders touching, he doesn’t miss a single note. His voice grows stronger and more confident with each line. The lyrics are vulnerable and raw. The real Ryder Hamilton.
My fingers keep moving through the pattern, muscle memory taking over so I can focus on his voice. On the way it cracks slightly on the emotional peaks. Tingles dance along my spine as I take in the lyrics.
“When the feedback finally dies, there’s nothing left but me. And the ghost of who I was before they told me who to be.”
It’s beautiful.
I glance at his profile and find his eyes closed, completely lost in the music. His body relaxes beside mine, the tension washing away with each measure.
He’s beautiful.
The song builds to a bridge, and his voice climbs higher. My fingers keep their steady pattern, anchoring him as he pours his heart out.
“The static fades to silence, leaves me standing here alone. And in the ringing emptiness, I hear myself calling home.”
On the final chorus, his voice breaks perfectly on the last line as the chords fade beneath it.
My four notes ring out alone for one more cycle before I lift my fingers, letting the silence settle.
Neither of us moves.
I’m afraid if I speak, or even shift, I’ll break whatever magic just happened.
Finally, Ryder opens his eyes and turns his head to look at me. We’re so close I can see the gold flecks in his dark irises.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“I barely did anything.”
“You did everything.” His voice is rough with emotion. “I couldn’t play it alone. But with you...” He trails off, his gaze dropping to where my hand still rests on the keys. “With you, I could.”
My heart pounds so hard I’m certain he can hear it.
“That was beautiful,” I manage. “The song. Your voice. All of it.”
A soft smile curves his lips. “It’s called ‘Static.’ It’s one of the first songs I wrote when I left home.”
“I’m so glad I got to hear it.”
His hand finds mine on the keys, covering it completely. Not guiding this time. Just holding.
“Me too.” Ryder’s thumb brushes across my knuckles. “Can I tell you something?”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t look at me yet, just watches his thumb caress my skin.
“When I first started out, my parents were the only people I could lean on. Before managers, before gigs, before any of this.” He pauses.
“I’d mess up at an open mic and call my dad on the drive home, and he’d just..
. talk me down. Remind me why I started. ”
“That sounds really nice.”
“It was.” His thumbs absently taps against my knuckle before swiping across the rest of them.
“But then things started moving. Miranda. The band. Getting paid. Somewhere in all of that, I noticed a shift.” He exhales slowly.
“They stopped just being happy for me. They started needing me to succeed.”
I watch his profile. “Because of everything they put in.”
“Yeah.” He nods. “And I get it. I do. My dad’s hands are wrecked. My mom shelved her whole career. They gave up so much, and now every time I call them I can hear this hope in their voices.” His jaw tightens. “It’s heavier than stage fright.”
“Because you can’t afford to fall apart in front of them anymore.”
He finally looks at me. “Exactly. I can’t call my dad after a bad rehearsal anymore. Because it’s not just me being upset. It becomes about whether the whole thing is going to work, and whether it’s worth it. I don’t want to put that on them. But it means I’ve gotta carry it alone.”
I sit with this admission, disturbed only by the faint creak of the old house around us.
“And then you showed up,” he says.
I blink. “Me?”
“You.” There’s almost wonder in his eyes.
“You don’t need me to be perfect. I don’t remember the last time I felt that from someone.
I know my parents love and support me, but they’re far away.
Here, I have Chase, Brooks, and Miranda.
All three of them rely on me to make it. We all go down if I can’t perform.”
My throat tightens. “That’s not fair.”
He squeezes my hand. “But I think I can handle it. You’re my muse, Ally.”
My heart is doing something loud and inconvenient inside my chest.
“That’s a lot of pressure,” I manage quietly.
“No. That’s the thing. It’s the opposite. It’s the first time in a long time that playing feels like mine again. I don’t know how else to put it. Something about you just makes the music come.”
I open my mouth, not entirely sure what I’ll say, when heavy footsteps pound up the stairs and along the hallway. Tension camps between my shoulder blades as their voices and obnoxious laughter nears the open practice room door.