4. Cade
Cade
I'm back over there. Dust coats everything. We’ve stopped to check on some kids playing along the road.
Eric's telling a joke about his kid's first baseball game.
Angel is rolling his eyes, pretending he's not amused.
I'm checking the map, half-listening as I determined how much further we have to go, when a small car racing towards us catches my attention.
"Get d?—"
I can’t finish the sentence before the world explodes.
The blast throws me sideways. There's no sound, just pressure crushing my skull. Then screaming. Blood everywhere. Walter's not moving. Angel's leg?—
I jolt upright in bed, sweat-soaked and gasping. The cabin is dark and silent except for the persistent ringing in my right ear. My hands shake as I check the time. 0217.
"Just a dream," I whisper, but my heart hammers like it's trying to escape my chest.
I know from experience sleep won't return tonight. Not with the memories so close to the surface. I grab a water bottle from beside the bed and drain it, wishing it were something stronger.
My guitar case sits in the corner, untouched since I arrived back in Passion Peak. I haven't played in months, not since before the blast. Not since before I was afraid I couldn’t really hear the music the way I used to.
But tonight, the need claws at me, desperate for release.
The wooden porch creaks beneath my bare feet as I settle into a rocking chair, guitar across my lap. The mountain air is cool against my skin, calming the heat of the nightmare. Stars blanket the sky above, reminding me how small my problems are in the grand scheme.
My fingers find the strings, stiff at first, then remembering. I play softly, an old song my grandfather taught me. The vibrations travel up my arms, soothing the trembling. I can feel the music even if my damaged ear doesn't catch all the nuances.
I close my eyes and let my hands wander from one melody to another. A Springsteen song. A classical piece I learned in high school. Then something original, a half-formed tune that's lived in my head since the hospital.
It's raw, imperfect, but honest. The music says what I can't about loss, about pain, about surviving when others didn't. About feeling half-alive.
"That's beautiful."
The voice startles me so badly I miss a chord, creating a jarring discord.
Embeth stands at the edge of my porch, a paper bag in her hands, looking like an apparition in the moonlight.
Her purple hair is piled messily on top of her head, and she's wearing a long, lacy nightgown under an oversized cardigan. Still with the combat boots...
"Jesus Christ," I growl, setting the guitar aside. "What the hell are you doing here? This is a good fucking way to get yourself killed, you know? Sneaking around people’s places like this..."
"I couldn't sleep," she says, taking a tentative step closer. "I bake when I can't sleep. Just dropped off some stuff for Melody and Jace and was heading back to town when I thought maybe,” she says, holding up a bag. "You might want some fresh banana bread."
"At 2:30 in the morning?" My voice is sharp with lingering adrenaline.
"I was going to drop it on your porch and go. Didn't expect you to be awake," she says, then gestures to the guitar. "Or playing like that."
"You should have texted first," I say, running a hand through my hair.
"Don't have your number," she says.
"Well you could have, I don't know, not trespassed in the middle of the night and scared the shit out of me."
"I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Figured you’d have noticed me coming up the driveway." She looks genuinely remorseful, which catches me off guard. "I just... When I heard you playing, I couldn't walk away."
The anger drains out of me, replaced by uncomfortable vulnerability. How much did she hear? How much of myself did I accidentally reveal?
"You should go," I say, but it lacks conviction.
Instead of leaving, she takes another step forward, placing the bag on the small table between the rocking chairs. "May I sit? Just for a minute?"
I should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should protect what little privacy I have left.
"Fine," I say instead. "One minute."
She settles into the chair beside mine, and we sit in silence, looking at the stars. It's strangely not awkward, both of us existing in the quiet darkness.
"How long have you played?" she finally asks.
"Since I was ten. Pap taught me."
"You're really good."
I grunt noncommittally.
"That last piece," she continues. "The one you wrote... It felt like something really important."
I glance at her, surprised. "How'd you know I wrote it?"
"Just a guess." She's looking at the sky, not at me, which somehow makes it easier to talk. "It sounded like a piece of your soul. Like it’s saying the things you can't say out loud."
The accuracy of her assessment unnerves me. "You analyze all your victims this thoroughly?"
“Victims?” she asks playfully.
“I mean you are a stalker aren’t you? Who else shows up in the middle of the night to a man’s doorstep that she barely knows.”
She smiles while still watching the stars. "Only the special ones."
Despite myself, I almost smile back. Almost.
"I haven't played in a long time," I admit. "Not since before..."
"Before your ear?" she asks when I don't continue.
I nod. "Music's different now. Unbalanced. Like hearing half of a conversation."
"But you still feel it," she says. "I could see that. In your face, your body. The music still lives in you."
Something about the night, the lingering rawness of the nightmare, the way she seems to understand me on some sort of supernatural fucking level. It loosens my tongue.
"Two guys from my unit died in the explosion," I say quietly. "I was standing right next to them. Should have been me, too."
In my peripheral vision, I see her turn toward me, but she doesn't speak. Doesn't offer platitudes or pity.
"Will you play something else?" she asks softly.
I hesitate, then pick up the guitar again. "One song. Then you go home. Got it?"
She nods, pulling her cardigan tighter around her shoulders.
I choose a simple melody, something gentle that doesn't require perfect hearing to play well. As the notes drift into the night air, I steal a glance at her.
Her eyes are closed, face tilted up slightly, lips parted. In the moonlight, with all her usual vibrancy quieted, she looks almost otherworldly. A single tear tracks down her cheek, and the sight of it hits me in the gut.
She's really hearing it. Hearing me.
When I finish, she wipes her cheek quickly, as if embarrassed. "Thank you," she whispers.
Our eyes meet, and something shifts between us. Something deeper than the physical attraction that's been simmering since we met. For a moment, we're just two people connecting in the quiet darkness, seeing each other clearly.
"Your minute's up," I say, but there's no edge to it now.
She stands, smoothing down her nightgown. "The banana bread's still warm," she says. "It's better that way."
As she steps off the porch, I find myself calling after her. "Embeth?"
She turns, moonlight catching in her purple hair.
"Drive safe."
A small smile curves her lips. "Always do."
I watch until her taillights disappear down the driveway, then open the paper bag. The scent of fresh banana bread fills the night air, warm and comforting. I break off a piece and savor the taste on my tongue.
This is the first food that's tasted like anything in months.