27. The Rest Between Notes
The Rest Between Notes
Rowan
T he rehearsal space reeked of stale sweat and broken dreams.
I sat behind my guitar amp, fingers picking out a melody that went nowhere, while Jake and Marcus argued about tempo changes that didn't matter. The music felt hollow, mechanical, like we were all just going through the motions of being a band without any of the passion that made it worth doing.
New York had swallowed me back up like it always did, the city's relentless energy masking the fact that I was still just as lost as I'd been in Harbor's End.
Maybe more lost, because at least there I'd had something to run from.
Here, I was just another musician in a city full of them, playing the same three chords and pretending it meant something.
It had been a week since I'd left Harbor's End.
A week since I'd thrown my few belongings into a duffel bag and caught the first train back to the city, running from the wreckage of whatever I'd thought I was building with Elias.
A week of telling myself I was better off without the complications of small-town life and inappropriate feelings for men who would never want me back.
“Ro, you with us?” Marcus called from behind his drum kit, sticks poised over the snare like he was ready to beat some sense into me.
“Yeah,” I lied, adjusting my guitar strap and trying to focus on the chord progression we'd been working on for the past hour. “Let's take it from the bridge.”
But my heart wasn't in it. Hadn't been in it since I'd gotten back, if I was being honest. Every song sounded flat, every lyric felt forced, every note I played reminded me of sitting at that piano with Elias, making music that actually mattered to someone other than just me.
Caleb counted us in, and we launched into the bridge with the aggressive energy that suggested we were all frustrated about something but too proud to admit what.
The song was decent, maybe better than decent, but it felt like performing surgery with oven mitts on.
All the technical skill in the world couldn't make up for the fact that none of us gave a shit about what we were playing.
“That's it for today,” Sasha announced from her spot near the soundboard, where she'd been taking notes on her tablet with the focused attention of someone who was paid to care about things the rest of us had stopped caring about months ago. “Good work, guys. We'll pick this up Thursday.”
The lie in her voice was so obvious it was almost funny.
This hadn't been good work, and we all knew it.
But nobody had the energy to address the elephant in the room: that our lead guitarist and primary songwriter had checked out somewhere between Harbor's End and here, and wasn't showing any signs of checking back in.
I was packing up my guitar when Sasha appeared at my elbow, tablet clutched against her chest like armor.
She'd been treating me with the careful attention usually reserved for wounded animals since I'd gotten back, asking pointed questions about my mental state and whether I was taking care of myself.
“Someone's been asking about you,” she said without preamble.
I paused in the middle of winding up my cable. “What kind of someone?”
“Older guy. Silver hair, nice coat, the kind of voice that makes you think he's used to being listened to. He's been by twice looking for you.”
My stomach dropped through the floor. There was only one person who fit that description, only one reason someone from Harbor's End would be looking for me in New York.
But it didn't make sense. Elias had made his position clear, had drawn his lines in the sand with the finality that didn't leave room for second chances.
“What did you tell him?”
“That you were in rehearsal and couldn't be disturbed. Told me to tell you to call him after, said it was important.” She pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket, held it out like it might bite her.
“Ro, is everything okay? You've been off since you got back, and now this guy shows up looking like he's ready to tear the city apart to find you.”
“I'm fine,” I said, which was becoming my default response to any question about my well-being.
“You're not fine. You're barely functional. And don't think I haven't noticed that you're living on coffee and whatever's left in those takeout containers you keep bringing to rehearsal.”
She wasn't wrong. I'd been existing rather than living since I'd gotten back, surviving on a diet of Chinese food and stubborn pride, sleeping when exhaustion finally overcame the constant loop of thoughts about what had gone wrong in Harbor's End.
“Did he say anything else?”
“Just that he needed to talk to you.” Sasha's expression softened. “Look, I don't know what happened up there, but you came back different. Angrier. More closed off than you were before, which is saying something.”
I folded the paper and shoved it into my pocket, where it sat like a small bomb waiting to explode. “I'll deal with it.”
“Will you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're determined to self-destruct rather than deal with whatever's eating you alive.”
The accuracy of her observation stung more than I wanted to admit.
Because she was right, wasn't she? I had been self-destructing since I'd gotten back, throwing myself into rehearsals that didn't matter and hookups that left me feeling emptier than before.
Anything to avoid thinking about the way Elias had looked at me in those last moments, like he was doing something that was killing him but couldn't stop himself from doing it anyway.
“It's complicated,” I said, shouldering my guitar case.
“Everything worthwhile is complicated. That doesn't mean you stop trying.”
I left the rehearsal space without answering, stepping out into the chaos of midtown Manhattan where the noise and movement could drown out the voice in my head that kept asking what if.
What if Elias showing up meant something?
What if there was more to the story than what he'd told me?
What if I'd been wrong about everything?
But I'd been wrong about things before, had let hope convince me that people cared more than they actually did. Getting my heart broken in Harbor's End had been bad enough; I wasn't sure I could survive it happening again .
The walk back to my apartment took me through the parts of the city that never slept, past clubs where I'd played and lost myself, past street corners where I'd made bad decisions and worse connections.
New York was supposed to be my refuge, the place where I could disappear into anonymity and reinvent myself as many times as necessary.
Instead, it felt like a holding pattern, a place to exist without really living while I waited for something to change.
My apartment was exactly as I'd left it: a disaster zone of empty bottles, unwashed clothes, and the accumulated debris of someone who'd stopped caring about basic hygiene.
Roxie was curled up on the windowsill, having claimed the sunny spot as her domain.
She meowed once when she saw me, a sound that might have been greeting or complaint.
“Hey, girl,” I said, scratching behind her ears. “Miss me?”
She purred and butted her head against my palm, the simple affection a reminder that at least one living thing was glad I existed.
I'd almost left her in Harbor's End, had convinced myself that she'd be better off with someone who could take proper care of her.
But at the last minute, I couldn't do it.
She was the only good thing I'd gotten out of that whole disaster, and I wasn't ready to give up the one relationship in my life that didn't come with complications.
I could call him. Could find out what was so important that he'd driven six hours to New York just to track me down. Could maybe get some answers to questions that had been eating at me since I'd left Harbor's End.
Or I could throw the paper away and pretend this had never happened. Could go back to the careful numbness I'd been cultivating since I'd gotten back, the protective shell that kept me from feeling too much of anything.
The phone rang before I could make a decision, the sound cutting through the apartment's silence like a blade.
I almost didn't answer, convinced it would be Sasha with more pointed questions about my mental state.
But the caller ID showed a number I didn't recognize, and curiosity won out over caution.
“Hello?”
“Rowan?”
The voice was familiar and warm and completely unexpected. Elias, calling from somewhere in the city, sounding tired and uncertain and nothing like the controlled man who'd walked out of my apartment a week ago.
“What do you want?”
The question came out harsher than I'd intended, but I was still reeling from the shock of hearing his voice. He was supposed to be in Harbor's End, living his safe, uncomplicated life without the burden of inappropriate feelings for his dead wife's son.
“I need to see you,” he said simply. “There are things you need to know. Things I should have told you before.”
“I think we've said everything that needs saying.”
“No. We haven't. Not even close.” His voice was rough with something that might have been desperation. “Please, Rowan. Just give me an hour. If you still want me to leave after that, I will.”
I should have said no. Should have hung up and blocked his number and gone back to the business of forgetting that Harbor's End had ever existed. But there was something in his voice, a vulnerability I'd never heard before, that made me hesitate.
“Where are you?”
“Downstairs.”
The words sent my pulse spiking. He was here, in my building, close enough to touch if I was stupid enough to let him up. Close enough to hurt me all over again if I was dumb enough to give him the chance .
“I didn't say you could come up.”
“I know. But I'm not leaving until we talk.”