Chapter Eighteen
Ryden
Fifteen Years Ago
I met Emory the same way I met Scarlett.
[Came in like the wind, left like a storm.]
“I hear you’re a guitarist,” she mused. “Show me.”
I was fearless having practiced over and over to drown out the noise.
The crunch of glass beneath my mother’s bare feet.
Knuckles colliding with plaster.
And yelling, so much yelling.
Music was my escape, my lifeline. Once I found my sound, I didn’t stop singing.
My guitar slung in its case across my back; like a wallet to some, a phone to others, Harley was my wristwatch. “What do you want to hear?”
She smiled. “Whatever you want to sing.”
It’s only fitting, I thought, as I strummed a C Major, humming Freedom, a song I wrote in hopes to one day feel such a thing – a manifestation, a dream.
“He’s good,” Emory nudged Scarlett as I played.
I was so used to the notes reverberating off the corners of my room that the noise of others felt distant. I could hear bits of praise, tuned them out just the same. To be a rock star…
Drown out the noise.
All that mattered was me.
[For once.]
It’s a beautiful thing to lose yourself in existence.
While Emory spoke in hushed whispers, Scarlett only stared.
I felt the heat of her gaze, as if lost in a trance. I caught her eyes, fingers fumbling.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, regaining composure.
She snickered. “Butter fingers don’t make billions.”
“Hey,” Emory hit her arm, “he’s just nervous.”
I swallowed as our glances caught once again. Only this time we both looked away, releasing the moment.
Was I nervous? Nah, no way. I never got nervous around her…
But –
I never mess up a note either.
What was I doing?
Trying to impress Emory?
…Or trying to impress her?
Was I trying to show her I could do it?
That maybe… Maybe she was right about me.
Maybe I could be a rock star.
Maybe it was my destiny.
Before long, I stopped playing, as if the pads of my fingers knew when to ease the break, signifying the end of the song.
I exhaled a breath, patting Harley before chancing a look at the girls.
They both wore different expressions.
Emory’s eyes were glossy, wide like a baby deer. She clapped continuously, “Brava, brava!” she exclaimed.
Then… then there was Scarlett.
Arms crossed, always protecting herself, keeping her feelings in.
If you didn’t know her, you’d think she was severely unimpressed.
But me – us, we were different together.
I didn’t miss the curve of her lip, a small smile forcing its way out of her, the softness of her brows lowering in admiration. A container of awe bursting at the seams, struggling to come out – but it was visible to me.
“You play…” she sucked in a breath, “well.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, setting Harley aside. “Yeah?”
“Don’t let that get to your head,” she pointed.
“That was hardly a compliment,” Emory jibed, winking at me. “Give him some credit.”
I glanced at Scarlett who looked clearly uncomfortable. Did she know how to compliment anyone? Did she ever even receive one? I couldn’t think about that, didn’t want to think about that. She was a composition of good things.
Even if I was the only person who could see that, I hoped that would be enough.
“Emory,” I cleared my throat, changing the subject. “Scarlett wouldn’t shut up about you.”
She bowed. “Talk of the town, they say!”
I laughed. “Tell me about you.”
“Do you really care?” she blushed. “Or are you just trying to be nice?”
“Careful now, you’re starting to sound like this one,” I pointed at Scarlett.
She rolled her eyes but they held amusement. “Emory’s my new best friend.”
“Didn’t realize the spot was open.”
“I held auditions and she applied.”
“Did I?” Emory asked at the same time as I said, “Did she?”
We all burst out laughing and ended up spending the entire day at the park, Scar and Emory laying on their sides gossiping about a teacher they hate (I actually loved him last year, Mr. Cosk gave me an A in Science), while I strummed Harley until the sun set over the neighbourhood.
“I don’t want to go home,” Emory whispered.
Scarlett, lying on her back, said, “Same.”
“Me too,” I added.
We didn’t look at each other, didn’t move, just stared up at the sky. Clustered, a unit, wishful – hoping that the very stars we looked at would somehow guide us to a different life – a promise that one day, we’d be okay.
But all three of us knew why we didn’t want to go home.
…
[There was no home to go back to.]