He’s still learning that he’s allowed to lay all of his mess out there and still be held with love. So he watches the trees instead. They offer him a place to rest his gaze while he finds the strength to speak what he needs.
“You know what I still wonder? Whythatsong. Why did she choose ‘Beyond the Chords’ out of everything I wrote?”
He turns to look, as if to see if I share the same question.
“Part of me thinks it’s because she knew it was the most complete thing I’d ever created: layered, deliberate, and vulnerable in a way I didn’t even know I could be.”
“Hmm,” lets him know I’m listening.
“It exposed something inside me, put everything in my soul on display that a man—well, anyone, I guess, tries not to admit. That he’s human, weak, fragile.”
This earns him a hand squeeze.
“I emptied everything I am into ‘Beyond the Chords.’”
I place my right hand on his forearm and stroke it slowly and encouragingly.
“That’s probably why it connected with people. Why it made her famous. Because it peeled back something universal, something intimate.”
“Probably,” I agree.
“I don’t think Sabrina believed she could write something like that herself. I think that’s why she took it. Becauseshe wanted that kind of soul-level truth attached to her name.”
I glance at him carefully, and something inside me moves. “Do you think she believed it was hers?”
He nods once, then frowns. “Maybe. Maybe she needed it to be. I think it said things she wished someone had written for her. But it wasn’t hers. Not really. And the worst part is…I think a part of her knew that truth, deep down.”
“Maddeningly, I can sort of understand Sabrina’s feelings, to a point.”
Trying to connect even more with him, I add, “When you sang that song to me, for me, about me, I felt so known and valued. I also felt honored that you would want to be known by me in that way.”
He huffs a quiet breath and gives a small shake of his head. “You have no idea what that means to me, hearing you say that.” He looks at me now and continues, “Ironically, I showed it to her because I really wanted her input. I wanted to hear how she could elevate my song with her unique vocal skills. Make it better than I could on my own.”
A breeze picks up, tugging at the hem of my dress and rustling the grass on the river’s shore. I shift my stance, because I can feel something unspooling in him—and I want to be present for it.
“She didn’t ask. I don’t think she even considered asking. And she didn’t say a word about releasing it. Not a text. Not a call. Nothing.”
“That woman.” I murmur under my breath.
“And it became her break-out single. Sabrina didn’t even tell me it was out there, charting.”
I draw in a sharp breath, the kind that feels as though it will cut on the way down. My hand tightens slightly aroundhis, a simple tether to me. I don’t interrupt, but he must feel the tremor in my fingers, the way my body reacts to his pain.
“She gave me no credit. My name was nowhere in connection to that song. And suddenly, the words that meant the most to me belonged to everyone but me.”
He unwraps his arm from mine and looks down at the water. I follow his gaze. It moves lazily beneath us, a mirror to the ache in his voice.
“You already know some of that, I guess. But not how it happened. Not what it did to me.”
He pauses. The wind gusts once, then stills.
“The first time I heard her version, I was in line at the grocery store, soaked from the rain, juggling oranges and soup cans, just trying to keep my head down. Her voice came on over the store speakers—singingmysong. The one I hammered out and reworked for months, as if I were building a cathedral out of words and sound.”
Beau runs a hand through his hair, and I sense he’s reliving the moment again in his mind.
“Maisie, I froze. Dropped everything.”
I picture it—him soaked, overwhelmed, incapable of moving while his song—his song—spilled through fluorescent-lit air, sung by the woman who had betrayed him.
