Page 32 of What They Say

Maudie

Maudie stood in the darkened kitchen, the only light coming from the cheap bulb over the stove. The house was finally quiet—Kath had come home glowing from another afternoon with Chase and had disappeared into her room with that soft, secret smile Maudie was starting to recognize. Good. Let her have that. Her little sister deserved something real.

Tony’s voice still echoed in her head from earlier that evening.

The fight had been ugly. He’d shown up drunk and handsy, pushing past her when she tried to keep him out, calling her a bitch for “acting like her stuck-up little sister.” The slap had come fast when she told him they were done. She’d hit him back harder, screaming that if he ever laid another finger on Kath—or even looked at her the wrong way again—she’d burn his life to the ground.

She wasn’t blind. She’d seen the way he looked at Kath. The lingering touches. The “jokes” that weren’t jokes. That shit wasn’t going to fly. Not with her baby sister. Not anymore.

So she’d thrown his stuff into the yard, told him it was over, and slammed the door in his face while he cursed and threatened. The neighbors had probably heard every word. She didn’t care.

Now the adrenaline was crashing.

Maudie pulled the half-empty bottle of cheap vodka from the cabinet above the fridge. Her hands shook only a little as she poured a generous measure into a chipped mug. The first sip burned going down, but the second smoothed out the edges. She leaned against the counter, staring at nothing.

She’d been drinking more lately. The realization sat heavy in her chest. Not every night. Just when the bills piled up. When the fear of turning into their mother clawed at her throat. When she needed something to quiet the noise in her head.

“It’s no big deal,” she whispered to the empty kitchen, voice rough. “I don’t drink that much.”

The words sounded hollow even to her own ears. She took another long sip, the warmth spreading through her limbs.

“I don’t have a problem.” She stared straight ahead. “I’m not like Mom. Not like Tony.” She refused the immediate desire to spit after thinking his name. “I just want things to be better for me and Kath.”

Tomorrow, she’d cut back. Tomorrow, she’d be the big sister Kath deserved.

Tonight, she just needed the edges to soften.

She slid down the cabinet until she was sitting on the cold linoleum, mug cradled in both hands, the silence of the house pressing in around her. Kath was safe in her room, dreaming about a boy who she was sure always looked at Kath like she hung the moon. Maudie was glad. Really glad.

But God, she was tired.

Chapter Nine

Chase

Chase sat on a stool in the corner of Slate’s studio, the rest of the band taking a break after a long run-through of the new set. Most of them had wandered outside for air or food, but he’d stayed behind, acoustic across his lap, fingers absently picking out that melody that refused to leave his head. He’d started thinking of it as “Kath’s Song.”

It was the one that had come to him while Kath had read her lyrics. It hit a warm, rolling meter, with a touch of discordant ache underneath. He kept chasing it, trying to pin it down before it slipped away.

The notes felt like her. Like freedom and armor at the same time.

Footsteps approached. He glanced up to see Bonnie Dupont walking over, guitar in hand, a half smile on her face.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked. “Vic’s out talking shop with Benny, and I’m avoiding the ‘tour logistics’ conversation for five more minutes.”

Chase grinned and nodded towards the stool beside him. “Please. I’m just messing around anyway.”

Bonnie sat and tuned quickly, then fell in beside him without needing sheet music or direction. They slipped into an easy groove—her rhythm guitar locking in with his lead lines, trading little fills and answering each other like they’d been playing together for years.

After a few minutes, Chase let the song breathe and looked over at her.

“How do you do it?” he asked. “Write new stuff, I mean. When it’s just you and a blank page. Does it come easy, or do you have a whole process?”

Bonnie strummed a soft chord, thinking. “A little of both. Sometimes a line hits me like a truck and I chase it. Other times I sit there for hours with nothing. I usually start with a feeling—what I’m angry about, scared of, or missing. Then I try to find the right words to carry it. The music comes after. Or sometimes before. It’s messy.” She glanced at him, curious. “Why? You writing now?”

Chase felt his ears warm. He kept playing, eyes on his fingers. “Not really. But I met someone. She writes songs. Or lyrics, anyway. She doesn’t play an instrument, so when she reads them to me, it feels more like poetry. Really raw, honest stuff. And when she was reading the other night, this melody just...appeared in my head. Wouldn’t leave me alone.”

Bonnie’s smile turned knowing. “Ah. The mysterious bike girl.”