6. Cade
Cade
Two days since Embeth left my bed with a casual kiss and a "see you around, soldier" like what happened between us was nothing special. Two days of telling myself that's exactly what I wanted, and she was only keeping up her end of the bargain. No strings, no expectations, no complications.
Two days of failing miserably to convince myself.
Now I'm standing outside her coffee shop long after closing, guitar case heavy in my hand, questioning every life choice that led me here. If I hadn’t promised her on her way out the door the other day that I’d stop by soon to discuss me playing at the café, I’m not sure I’d be here at all.
The place is dim, but I can see her moving inside, wiping down counters in a polka-dot dress that hugs every curve I've now memorized with my hands.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I knock lightly on the glass.
Her face lights up when she sees me, and something twists in my chest. She unlocks the door, her hair bouncing as she steps back to let me in.
"You came," she says, surprise coating her words.
"Said I would, didn't I?" I'm careful to keep my tone neutral, businesslike.
"Yeah, but people say a lot of things." She looks me up and down. "Especially after they've seen someone naked."
I nearly choke, unprepared for her directness. "Jesus, Embeth."
She grins, unrepentant. "Just getting it out of the way. Yes, we had sex. Yes, it was fantastic. No, it doesn't have to mean anything beyond that," she says, but I see the way her eyes shift away like she’s trying to convince herself more than me. She takes my jacket, her fingers brushing mine.
"I'm here to talk music," I say finally, because it's safer than admitting I've barely slept because of her and how she makes me feel.
Something flickers in her eyes, but it's gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "Right. One performance, controlled environment, no recording devices allowed."
"One performance," I emphasize. "To help your business. That's it."
"Crystal clear, Captain."
"Staff Sergeant," I correct automatically.
She smiles. "Crytal clear, Staff Sergeant.”
The café feels different after hours. Quieter, more intimate. She's set up a small area by the unused corner stage, two chairs facing each other, a small table with water glasses between them.
"Have you thought about what you'll play?" she asks as I unpack my guitar.
"Nothing too complicated. I was thinking maybe some classic rock. Stuff people recognize," I say, tuning the guitar.
"You wanna play something now?" she asks, settling into the chair opposite me. "Whatever comes to mind."
I hesitate, then start with "Landslide". Simple chords, steady rhythm. As I play, I watch her face. She closes her eyes, swaying slightly, completely absorbed. I've never seen anyone listen to music so physically, like she's feeling it in her entire body.
When I finish, she opens her eyes, and the appreciation there makes my chest tight.
"Beautiful," she says softly. "But maybe something a little more upbeat?"
"What would you suggest?"
She thinks for a moment. "Something with more hope. More connection."
I switch to "Lean On Me," and without prompting, she begins to sing along, her voice clear and surprisingly strong. We've never practiced together, never discussed keys or timing, but somehow she follows my lead perfectly, adjusting when my tempo falters.
When we finish, we're both staring at each other, a little stunned by how effortlessly we've harmonized.
"The woman can sing," I say, impressed with how effortlessly it seems to come to her.
"And you sound surprised."
"I am. I didn't expect..."
"The weirdo blue-haired coffee girl to carry a tune?" she finishes, smirking.
"Purple," I correct. "And yeah, I guess."
She laughs. "No matter where we ended up living, Granny was always in a church choir. Made me join too. Hated it then, but the skills stuck."
We move through several more songs, settling into a rhythm. She suggests another upbeat song, and I play through it once while she listens. The second time, she joins in, and it's like we've been performing together for years.
I'm actually enjoying myself, the music flowing more naturally than it has since before the explosion, when disaster strikes.
A sharp burst of feedback from somewhere, a car outside backfiring maybe, sends a spike of pain through my damaged ear.
I flinch, miss a chord, lose the thread of the melody entirely.
"Sorry," I mutter, frustrated and embarrassed.
"Hey." She's kneeling beside me suddenly. "It's okay. Take a minute."
I shake my head, fighting the disorientation that comes with these episodes. "It's not. I can't perform like this. What if it happens during the show?" I ask, shaking my head and looking away from her.
"Then we adapt," she says simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. She studies me for a moment, then asks, "Your left is your good ear, right?"
"Yeah.”
She moves her chair to my left side. "Play Lean on Me again."
Reluctantly, I start.
"Now watch me while you play," she says, beginning to tap her foot. Then she adds a hand motion, a subtle dip on each downbeat. "Visual cues. When you lose the audio, follow these."
I focus on her hand movements, syncing my playing to her rhythm. It works. When a group of loud, mostly drunk people walking outside overwhelms my hearing, I keep the beat by watching her hands.
After a few minutes, I stop playing. "Where'd you learn that?"
"Just made it up," she admits. "
I study her face, searching for pity and finding none. "Why are you doing this? Really?"
"Doing what?"
"This." I gesture around us. "Working around my... limitations." The real question hangs unspoken. Why care so much about me is the unspoken question.
She's quiet for a moment, considering. "Because your talent is special, Cadence. Your music deserves to be heard. You deserve to be heard."
“Really? Because I could have sworn this was all just to help your business,” I say playfully.
“Yep, totally just business,” she says leaning closer, and I start playing again, a song I haven't performed since high school. An old song called “I Don’t Want to Set the World On Fire” that my grandfather taught me.
Her eyes widen in recognition, and she joins in, her voice wrapping around the melody like it belongs there.
When we finish, the silence between us feels charged, meaningful.
"We sound good together," she says finally, a hint of wonder in her voice.
"Yeah," I agree, not just talking about the music. "We do."
For now, that's enough of an answer for both of us. Whatever this is, attraction, connection, temporary insanity... It's not just business, and we both know it.
"Again?" she asks, and I nod, finding the opening chords of the next song.
Her smile, warm and unguarded, hits me like sunrise after a long night. And for the first time since coming home, the music flows through me without pain, without effort.
Healing something I didn't know could be mended.