Chapter Fifteen
Beckett
My fingers move freely over the strings, pulling a tune out of me that’s brand new, yet somehow achingly familiar. It’s soft and gentle, yet taut with an emotion I can’t quite name.
It’s that old, still familiar sensation of letting music flow from somewhere inside of me, my body channeling it into something tangible that echoes in my ears.
Moments when I feel most myself.
I can hardly believe this is happening. I haven’t played like this— created like this —since Gran died.
The morning after her wake, I got up and found I’d become numb. Something in me had shut down, and I was on autopilot, both physically and emotionally. And it never really went away.
Instead of mourning in what might be considered the traditional way, I somehow navigated the last year feeling nothing at all. Even when Roisin left, I continued to go about my everyday life without letting myself feel a thing.
It was safe. Still is safe.
But right now, something is stirring in me that’s been dormant for a long time.
I don’t know why it’s happening, but I do know that I can feel it.
The same way I used to feel it when Gran was around. Like there’s magic in the air.
When I woke up this morning, I felt… inspired is perhaps the best word for it. Maybe it’s because I said yes to the Indie Music Night, but something has suddenly shifted.
Until now, I’ve been playing on the couch under the window in Mr. Prenchenko’s place, but this morning, I put my guitar in its case and wandered around The Serendipity like some kind of vagrant searching for a street corner to busk on.
And that’s when I found myself inexplicably drawn to this room.
I thought I’d explored the building thoroughly—over the past few days, I’ve taken a swim in the pool, had my morning coffee in the courtyard (since I deemed all of the tea I bought at Spring Foods undrinkable, particularly one brand of something called ‘Orange Pekoe Black Tea’ that should have been a criminal offense), and spent an afternoon reading in the rooftop garden that’s bursting with color in full summer bloom. Until this morning, I’d never noticed the room just off the building’s lobby.
It’s an old library or study of some sort, with dark wood paneling on the walls and aged volumes lining the floor-to-ceiling shelves. The furniture is dated, matching the rest of the room, but it’s clean and comfortable. Sunlight streams through the windows, painting shadow patterns all around the comfortable wingback chair I’m sitting in.
I came in here with the intention of rehearsing my cover for the big night, but instead, my own music is flowing once again.
As my fingers move over my guitar, my chest tightens with emotion.
I’m shocked by the physical sensation of it—heavy as it settles over my ribs, but not unpleasant. Just… there.
It’s the first time in a long time that I’ve felt anything.
And then, I hear the creak of a door closing.
I abruptly stop playing, slamming my hand down on the strings.
“Sorry,” a small voice whispers. I look up to see Keeley standing just inside the doorway, lit by the streaming sunlight. Her black hair glimmers where the sun kisses it, and her eyes are wide as saucers. “I didn’t mean to startle you or interrupt.”
I clear my throat, trying to force away the sensation in my chest as I paste on a cheery smile and set my guitar down. “You’re fine. I was just messing around.”
She blinks. “That wasn’t messing around. That was… incredible. What song was it?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, lifting a shoulder.
Her eyes bug even more. “You’re telling me you wrote that?”
This makes me laugh, and I lean forward in my chair. “‘Wrote’ is a strong word. It’s just a little melody that came to me.”
Keeley shakes her head. “You have that a lot? ‘Little melodies’ just ‘coming’ to you?”
The almost indignant expression on her face makes me want to laugh. “No. Not really, not anymore.”
“Oh. Too bad.”
I tilt my head at her. “For some reason, I didn’t take you for someone who’d be into this kind of acoustic-y stuff.”
“What? Just because I wear a lot of black and have a nose ring, you assume I’m a riot grrrl who should be rocking out to Bikini Kill or something?” she asks, placing her hands on her hips.
“I mean, that’s definitely something I’d like to witness.” I chuckle.
“Careful, McCarthy, you sound like a man who’s treading on very thin ice right now.”
“That sounds exactly like something a riot grrrl who should be rocking out to Bikini Kill would say,” I retort. Then pause. “Whatever on earth a riot grrrl is.”
She laughs. “Not important. Because for your information, I’m more of a country music girlie.”
“Intriguing. Like Dolly Parton and twangy guitars and songs about beer and heartbreak?”
She points at me. “Now who’s stereotyping?”
“Point taken and accepted,” I acquiesce. Because I kind of love the fact she’s into country music. And Dolly is a literal icon… not that I’d admit that to her right now when I’m having so much fun teasing her.
She’s still hovering inside the door, not making any moves to step further into the room, and I find that I don’t want her to go. The melody may have died on my fingertips when I realized her presence, but the air is still taut with that magical feeling, like something could happen at any moment. And while I have no idea what that something could be, I realize I want to find out.
“So, questionable musical tastes aside, how’s your week been so far?” I grin at her. “I haven’t seen you haunting the fire escape at night lately.”
She grins back. “Oh, I’ve been haunting it every night. But I prop my window open to ensure I can get back inside when I’m done.”
“Don’t you enjoy, you know, sleeping? Or are you more of a nocturnal creature?”
Her face falters for a moment before she says, “Andrew lives right upstairs from me. I can’t sleep when I hear multiple footsteps at night because I know Lisa’s up there with him.”
“I cannot imagine my ex living upstairs from me. That sounds like torture.”
“It’s…actually more annoying than torture-y. Strangely.” She frowns, her expression thoughtful.
“You don’t miss him as much as you thought you might?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She picks at her fingernail, eyes lowered. “I mean, it’s never nice to see—or hear—your ex moving on, but honestly, their footsteps can be loud. ” She shoots me a little smile. “Though, I do think it’s more habit at this point to go out on the fire escape than it is necessity to escape the footsteps. I always do my best thinking and article outlining out there.”
“Ah, yes, for the job in Boston,” I say without thinking.
She looks up sharply. “I don’t recall telling you the job was in Boston.”
My cheeks heat a little. “Your brother told me,” I admit.
“You and Ezra were talking about me.” She says this as a statement, not a question, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“We were.” I’m unable—or maybe unwilling—to keep the flirtatious note out of my voice. Because despite what might be all my best instincts, I have just realized right this second that ripped jeans and Converse sneakers are my kryptonite. “All about how you meddled to try to get me to play the Indie Music Night.”
She grins, totally unashamed. “It worked, though, didn’t it? He told me you’ll be playing.”
“He also said that if I play something Irish, you’ll lead the crowd in an Irish dance routine,” I add, just for badness.
Her mouth drops open, her expression delightfully stunned, before her shrewd eyes narrow. She points an accusing finger at me. “Liar.”
“If I say ‘please’ can I make it be true?”
She snorts. “Not in a million, billion years am I dancing in public. Or dancing at all. I’m not the dancing type.”
I want to tell her that, on the contrary, her eyes are currently dancing, but I refrain. Because boundaries.
“Pity,” I say instead, “In my mind, you were line-dancing up a storm in full cowgirl getup.”
Which somehow sounds equally as boundary-pushing as what I wanted to say.
She reddens, shifting from foot to foot as she says, “Well, I’d better be going. Have to hit the library to work on my article.”
“How’s that going?”
She sighs. “I liked your idea of trying to disprove the legend, but so far, I’ve only encountered happy stories of love in this place, save for my own experience. And if I base the whole thing on my own breakup, it’s going to come across as petty. Too personal to be a proper opinion piece. So, I’m a bit stuck… but I’ll figure it out.”
Keeley steps back and reaches for the door handle. Turns it.
“Oh. You’ve got to be kidding me,” she mumbles, turning it harder.
The door doesn’t budge.
She spins to look back at me, her face a mask of total disbelief.
Meanwhile, I can barely hide my smile. “It’s happening again, isn’t it?”