“No, you’re not,” I admit quietly. “But the body doesn’t lie. Here, try this.”
I slide a hand slowly between her shoulder blades, letting my fingers spread lightly over the tense muscles. Her breath catches, and her body shifts slightly beneath my touch—a brief tremble that betrays both resistance and need.
It’s an observation I need to file away for later reflection, because I’m worried if she knows I noticed she might close herself off again.
“Relax your shoulders. Pull your chest out just a bit. Don’t let your neck crane forward like you’re bracing for a blow.” My voice is low, the pressure in my hand almost coaxing. It’s not invasive, simply a careful guide.
Her eyes flicker away, lips pressed in a thin, straight line. I know this is new ground. Trust born from trauma doesn’t come easy.
Slowly, almost grudgingly, she lets her shoulders drop a fraction. The stiff line of her spine softens enough for her ribcage to open. I keep my hand there, steady, sensing the tiny shifts that ripple under my fingers.
“Try breathing from here,” I say softly, tapping lightly against the hollow beneath her ribs. “Let the air fill you up.”
Her gaze lingers on the spot where my fingers rest, then flicks upward to meet mine. There’s no spark of flame or flicker of desire, only something quieter but no less real.
Trust.
A hint of the way she used to look at me. And it feels all the sweeter because it wasn’t given freely, but earned inch by inch.
She inhales, the breath slow, shaky. The rise in her chest feels like a cracked dam finally giving way. Then she exhales, lips parting in a gentle hum, the vibration shaky but there. The note trembles in the space between us.
The session stretches on, a slow, halting dance between effort and release. Every breath, every cracked note, every tiny victory feels carved out of stone. I watch her closely, the way her jaw clenches before relaxing, the pull of muscle around her throat with every note.
When she hits a higher pitch without breaking, her eyes widen, surprised even by herself. A flicker of something soft—pride?—lights in my chest, quiet but honest. No fanfare, no grand declarations. Just a slow, simple nod.
The ten minutes of practice are over before we know it, but she’s not supposed to overtax her voice. It’s about healing, not seeing how long she can go before breaking.
“Meet again in four hours?” I ask, voice low, cautious. She’s supposed to be doing this four times a day.
She nods, small but sure, the barest hint of a smile ghosting her lips. It’s not a song yet, perhaps a single note, but it’s the first one we’ve shared in a long time.
Three Months Later
“How did it feel this time?” I ask.
She instinctively holds her hand against her throat as if checking that the sound really came from her, her hand shaking slightly with emotion.
“Great,” she breathes out, a broad smile on her face. It’s amazing the progress she’s made since we first started doing her at-home sessions together. “I think I beat my record in holding that note.”
Watching her light up like that makes something in my chest unclench. Every day she fights to reclaim what was stolen, one shaky note at a time, and I get a front-row seat to her strength.
Returning her smile, I stand and hold a hand out to help her up. She takes it without hesitation, and I relish the brief momentI get to touch her. “You’re doing amazing, Lexi. I’m proud of you.”
“I can’t wait to get to where I can sing again,” she says, her happiness deflating. Even with all her improvements, the road to healing has been hard on her. Singing has been her life from the day I met her, and it’s now beenmonthssince she’s been able to.
I wrap my arm around her, needing to give her some comfort, and she leans into me. It’s been amazing rebuilding our friendship these past several months.
“You’ll get there.” I ache to press a kiss to her head, but I hold myself back. There was a time when every touch between us was easy. Now, every gesture feels like a question I don’t quite have the right to ask.
Friendly touching is one thing, but I don’t dare initiate anything intimate until I’m sure I’ve groveled enough. Even then, I don’t think I’ll deserve her.
We exit the side door and take the garden path to the grand outside oasis. Where we used to spend time on the beach patio, we now have mountain backdrops and grand communal areas. Izzy’s team found the perfect place for us to start Survival Records, and they got renovations done in record time.
The air here smells cleaner, thinner, edged with pine instead of salt. The hum of waves has been replaced by birdsong and the distant rush of the creek running through the property. Sometimes I still expect to hear gulls, but instead, I get wind sweeping through the trees. It’s softer, steadier, like the world’s taken a long breath and finally let it go.
“Do you miss the beach house?” I ask, leaving off the part asking if she misses the town where we grew up.
“I thought I might, and maybe I will eventually, but I really don’t. I needed a fresh start.” After a moment of reflection, she adds, “I think we all did.”
