Page 58 of Fractured Heart

“Okay.” I sigh in relief at the word ‘we.’ I may not be able to do this alone, but I have Charles and the other guys to help me. They can help transform the song into something better. Together, we can make this work.

When the food’s ready, we head back to the dorms. Charles spreads the takeout containers out on the boardroom table and takes a seat directly in front of Tate’s broken guitar. It’s impossible to tell that anything’s wrong with it, since I put it back with the cracked side down, but I’m terrified he’ll still somehow notice.

He doesn’t.

I try to relax, but I’m acutely aware of the broken instrument’s presence. I swear it’s watching me, judging. Here I am about to feast on fancy, expensive food while all I’ve done is ruin things: the bathroom, the rug, the guitar. There’s no way I can pay the guys back, but maybe helping them get through this audition is a good place to start.

Chapter 28

“So how do you want to do this?” Charles asks.

He takes off his glasses and cleans a spot of dust with a takeout napkin. It’s funny how different he looks without them. He’s suddenly rougher, wilder. More beastly. When he perches the glasses back on his nose with huge hands, he reminds me of a ferocious beast playing dress-up.

There’s something distinguished about Charles, though, that makes the glasses work. It’s not the fact that he likes fancy food, even though he does, or that he brewed us a pot of tea to go with our meal. It has to do with the way he carries his huge frame and lounges back in his seat like royalty.

“Roonie?” he asks, his tone implying he’s been waiting for an answer from me for quite some time. “Where shall we start?”

“Oh.” I flush, realizing that I’ve been staring at him and not saying a word for who knows how long. “I could play all my songs first and then we can pick a few?”

“Good idea.” Charles spins around in his seat and reaches for Tate’s guitar.

“Stop!” I cry.

Charles freezes an instant before his huge fingers graze the solid wood. “What’s wrong, Roonie?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head emphatically. A little too emphatically. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Charles doesn’t buy it. He regards me quizzically for a few seconds, glancing between me and the guitar. He can obviously tell something’s up, but he can’t seem to figure out what.

“I saved all my songs online,” I quickly change the subject. “Here, let me play them on my phone.”

When I pull up the site, Charles is watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. “Can you send me the list of titles?” he asks.

“Let me see.” I play around with the page until I figure out how to share the list.

Charles looks over it and nods. “We’ll use my phone to add critiquing notes next to each song.” He scratches his beard while I tense in my seat. “And we can come up with a matrix, so we can score each song.”

My heart grows cold. How can Charles even think about grading my songs? About scoring and criticizing work I poured my heart and soul into? I jump to my feet. I can’t sit here while Charles lists all the things that are wrong with my creations. I can’t look at all the abysmally low scores he’s bound to give them. And I definitely can’t bear to have him destroy my love for music. Not when it’s the one thing that’s kept me going all these years.

Why did I even agree to this in the first place? The only reason the guys even asked me for help was because they were desperate. They don’t really like my songs, and neither will the judges.

“Roonie?” Charles moves between me and the door, blocking my only means of escape.

“Move!” The order slips past my lips before I can think better of it. I cover my mouth in shock. Did I just boss around the Beast?

“Why? What’s wrong?” Charles asks, eyes wide. But he steps aside, just like I asked. I start to move past him, and his shoulders slump. The hurt is plain on his face. After everything he’s done for me, the least I can do is explain.

“I can’t let you critique my songs. They’re…important to me, Charles.” What I really want to say is that they’re all I have. That without my music, I’m not sure if there’ll be any of me left. “I didn’t write my songs to be criticized, or rated, or graded. They might suck, but they’re mine.”

“Your songs don’t suck.” Charles pales. “I never meant to imply that.”

“You don’t have to lie to make me feel better. I don’t care if no one else likes my songs. I do. I wrote them for me. They make me happy. They…” Keep me going. Keep me living, day after day. Keep the hope alive. “They’re mine.”

“Roonie.” Charles stares at me earnestly. “Your songs are amazing. The two that I heard yesterday—either one of them would be perfect for the audition.”

“Charles, I know they’re better than Apples, but—”

“Apples?” Charles frowns.