“No,” he agrees. “But it’s something.”
“Something that complicates everything.”
“Or maybe something that makes the complications worth it.”
I want to argue, to maintain the walls that keep me safe. But sitting here with morning light streaming through windows that need cleaning, watching him turn his coffee mug in endless circles, I’m tired of pretending music doesn’t matter.
“I threw away my lyrics last night,” I admit. “Tore them up and tossed them in the venue trash.”
Something flickers across his face. Guilt? “Why?”
“Because they were about things I can’t want. About someone I can’t let in.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Does it matter?”
“I think it does.”
Denise appears again, this time with a plate of toast neither of us ordered. She sets it between us. “You both look like you need to eat something. Don’t argue.”
She walks away before we can tell her we aren’t hungry. Darian picks up a piece of toast, tears it in half, offers me one piece. The gesture is so simple, so devoid of expectation, that I take it.
We eat in silence, two people who’ve said too much and not enough. The toast tastes like comfort and possibility, like maybe sharing something small doesn’t have to lead to losing everything.
“I have an unfinished song,” I say suddenly. “Something I started years ago but could never complete.”
“Play it for me.”
“I don’t play anymore.”
“Then sing it.”
“Here?”
“Why not? The place is almost empty.”
I glance around. He’s right—just us and two old men reading newspapers at the counter. Still, the idea of singing in daylight, without the protective darkness of a venue, makes my hands shake.
“I can’t.”
“You can. You just won’t.”
“Same thing.”
“No, it’s not.” He leans forward. “Can’t means unable. Won’t means afraid.”
“Maybe I have good reasons to be afraid.”
“Maybe you do. But fear’s not a great songwriter.”
The challenge in his voice sparks something defiant in me. Before I can think better of it, I clear my throat and hum the opening bars. Soft, barely audible, but the melody flows like it’s been waiting.
“I built these walls with careful hands . . .”My voice cracks on the first line, but I push through.”Each brick a lesson learned too well . . . Kept out the storms, kept out the pain . . . Kept out everything else as well . . .”
I stop, face burning, unable to meet his eyes. The silence stretches until I hear him humming. The harmony slides underneath my melody like it was always meant to be there, like he’s heard this song before even though I’ve never sung it for anyone.
“How do you do that?” I whisper.
