Noah grumbled but took a seat at the piano. He threw me an unreadable look as he passed.
He paused with his fingers hovering over the keys. He looked hesitant and uncomfortable. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and began to play.
I tried not to wince, but it was hard. This song sounded nothing like what we had composed. The notes were all the same, but he played them in an odd, discordant way. His hands didn't move smoothly over the keys. There were odd pauses in places where there shouldn't have been, and he rushed in places that should have been slower and more thoughtful.
Noah finished the song with a final crash of keys. He sat there, not looking at the rest of us.
"That was shit," said one of the twins bluntly, the one who hadn't been fidgeting.
"Don't tell me that. Tell her. She's the one who—" Noah cut himself off sharply, looking like he'd bitten his tongue to keep from saying the rest of the sentence.
"Jen helped compose the song," Naomi declared. "Noah had writer's block. Or composer's block. Whatever it was, he was having trouble. We decided to bring in outside help."
I reeled back, shocked that Naomi had told everyone outright. Noah glared at her with so much ire I was surprised she didn't collapse dead on the spot.
"Why didn't you ask one of us for help?" Cameron said, sounding affronted. "Seriously, Noah, why didn't you just say something?"
Noah looked down at the piano and mumbled something indistinctly.
"It doesn't matter," I said, hoping to save Noah from having to confess his insecurities. Even as upset with him as I was, I didn't want him to lose face in front of his friends and bandmates. "The only thing that matters is that we need to fix this."
"Fix what?"
"You," I shot back. "That's not the way the song is supposed to be played."
"And you know all about that, don't you?"
"I sure as hell do. We worked on it together. I know how it's supposed to sound. It's supposed to be soulful. It's supposed to be heart-wrenching. It's supposed to be sensual."
"It's supposed to sell records," Noah bit out. "I don't care about the rest of it."
"Don't you? I thought the whole reason we were working together was so you could make a song that sounded like Noah Hart, not like Darkest Days."
"That's stupid," he said flatly.
"You told me you wanted it to sound authentic," I stressed.
"You always think you know everything," he snarled. "Don't tell me what I want. You don't know anything about me."
"I know a hell of a lot more about you than anyone else."
"Do you?" he scoffed. "Maybe you only know exactly what I wanted you to know. Maybe everything you know is wrong."
"And maybe if you actually felt any human emotions aside from irritation and disdain you'd be able to play something that touched people."
His eyes burned with indignation. "I don't need some fangirl telling me how to play my own goddamn song."
"Clearly you do because the way you're playing right now is trash."
"And I'm sure you're going to tell me exactly what you think I should be doing differently."
"You need to stop shutting me out. You need to get back to the Noah Hart who actually opened up to people. Who let himself be vulnerable."
"You think you can just fix everything, don't you?" he snapped.
"I want to help you," I shot back.
"How in the hell can you help me? You're just a fangirl. You can't help anyone. You couldn't even keep your mother from—" he cut himself off sharply.
