Chapter 56
Chapter fifty-six
Hendrix · Then
Because Of You – First To Eleven
Twenty Years Old
Music rushes my ears the second I step through the door.
A sharp lick, a gritty chord, a jagged strum.
I close my eyes, my backpack dangling from my fingertips, as the echo of my dad playing stirs the air. I can’t remember the last time he picked up a guitar.
He’s sure as shit not done it since I was a kid and started playing for real.
Then, when I came home with my second-hand Hummingbird at fourteen, he locked the music away for good. His guitars gather dust in the spare room, his vinyl collection decays in the attic. I wonder if he started playing again when I left for university.
Did the silence disappear from this house the same day I did?
Before I can stop myself, I’m drawn up the stairs by the sound of his haunting melody.
I remember the first time I heard him play. I was only four, I think. He was fooling around with an electric in the spare room, playing an old Jimi Hendrix song. Ironic, really. A song from my namesake was the first time I felt the magic stirring in my veins.
I fell in love with music that day.
And it was that same day I started to realise my dad didn’t love me.
The moment he saw me sitting on the stairs, my fingers dancing through the air while I tried to mirror his movements, he slammed the door shut and only silence remained.
I wanted to share it with him, the music, the melodies in my mind, but he refused to listen.
He wouldn’t let me into his world—but I couldn’t stay away either.
The more in love I fell with music, the deeper his resentment grew.
I pause on the last step.
My hand shakes on the white banister when I peer through the cracked door to the spare room. My dad is hunched on the floor, a vintage Martin D45 angled in his lap. Pain rips through my stomach at the sight.
He looks unsure, his movements timid, yet his melody is magnificent.
It’s perfect in every way. Not a single note missed, no chords out of place. It’s as if he’s spent every day of his life with that instrument strapped to his chest.
I retreat before he can see me, unwilling to be the silence that steals his song again.
ROCK STAR
Missing you, Rixie Moore.
My gaze follows the flickering lightbulb as it sways gently from the breeze coasting through the cracked window. I trail my fingers along the cardboard boxes littering my floor.
Everything is done. No more bags to pack, no more drawers to clear. My taxi is due in an hour and then I’m gone.
Tears prick my eyes but I blink them away.
What’s the point in mourning the life I never had in this house?
I draw in a slow breath, force myself to stand, and grab my Hummingbird from its open case. I perch on the edge of my bed, nestling the guitar into my lap as the opening notes from Heart Torn swirl through my mind.
The song isn’t close to being finished yet.
Cole and I don’t exactly get a lot of time to write together anymore. Not that we’ve really tried, either. A few lyrics sent through texts, some melodies strummed over Skype when we found the time between my lectures and his shows. But otherwise, our creative partnership is on pause while he tours.
Eyes fluttering closed, I pluck the strings.
I pour everything into the song, the pain, the fear, the hope that it isn’t the end even though I know it is.
My life changed irrevocably the day I moved into this house.
I met a boy, fell in love, and found a family.
Now they’re all gone, chasing our dreams.
And I’m here, alone, wondering where I go next.
The bed dips at my side.
I still my fingers, silencing the music when the scent of stale cigarettes and aged whiskey whips around me.
My dad says nothing, his foot bouncing off the floor.
I fight the urge to look at him, but it’s futile.
A pink and white stick sits between his fingertips.
I blink. “Where did you find that?”
“It fell out of the bin.” His voice is gruff, low, angry. “I didn’t realise you were so fucking stupid.”
Bile crawls up my throat. I choke it down, shaking my head.
“It’s not—” A sharp breath catches in my lungs. “I’m not—”
A bitter laugh escapes him. “You just can’t let people live their dreams, can you?”
He doesn’t need to say Cole’s name for me to know who he’s talking about.
“He is living his dreams.” I jump up, my grip tight around the neck of my guitar as tears gather on my lashes. “Our dreams. It’s not like I planned any of this. We made a mistake once, and I panicked. But I’m not pregnant, I never want to be pregnant.”
I don’t even think he’s listening to me as his gaze stays locked on the stick. “You’re gonna ruin him.”
I shake my head. “No. I won’t.”
“You will.” He finally looks up at me, eyes dull, expression blank. “It’s what you do.”
Ice skitters down my spine, freezing me in place.
I did that to him.
My existence is the reason for that look on his face. The lack of feeling, the lack of heart. It’s all because of me.
“He doesn’t get to have it all,” he says, his eyes landing on my Hummingbird. “That’s not how this life works. You have to choose. Love or music. If you let him choose you, he’ll hate you forever.”
A sob rips from me. “Like you do?”
He doesn’t answer. Not that he needs to.
We both know our reality. I’m nothing more than a living, breathing reminder of everything he gave up. Of all the things he lost because my mum trapped him here with me while his old band shot to stardom and left him behind.
“Why are you doing this now?” I ask.
He waves the stick. “Because of this. Because it might not be positive now, but one day it will be and then he’ll give it all up for an empty life with you.”
My temples throb. “Why do you care? You don’t even know him.”
“I was him!” The floor vibrates as he shoots to his feet.
I stumble back, knocking the vanity with my guitar.
A string pops.
I fall to my knees and drag it into my chest as if the weight of the wood alone can hold me together while everything falls apart around me.
“I had it all,” my dad says. “The woman, the talent, the promise of a lifetime of making music. Then you came along, and everything died.”
I clench my eyes shut, steel digging into my hands from the strings.
“I died the day you were born.” His boots slap into the carpet. “Don’t be the reason he dies too.”
Blood rushes through my ears as the door swings open.
A tear rolls down my cheek.
Then he delivers a final blow to my already cracking heart. “If you love him, Hendrix… Let him go.”
The guitar slips from my hold as the door clicks shut.