“Short. A year in, I was deployed to Afghanistan. A roadside bomb went off next to our convoy. I took shrapnel.”
The words come out so easily it scares me. I don’t know why I gave him this. This, of all things.
That day, I’d lost everything.
“You’re serious? Shit, I’m sorry, Yosh. I—” He clears his throat. “Are you okay now? I mean…”
“Yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine.” I wave it off. “It took a while to recover, but I’m fine now. I received a Purple Heart, got discharged. Everything is fine.”
I hear myself say it three times. A dead giveaway that nothing’s fine, and he knows it.
Before he can press further, I throw up a smokescreen, nodding toward a pile of notes on his nightstand.
“Have you been writing?”
He glances at the messy collection of papers, then back at me.
“Yeah. Lyrics, compositions. Just putting some raw inspiration on paper. It’s nothing.”
“I don’t believe that. Can I see?”
“No.”
That was abrupt. Is there some unspoken rule, like a magician never revealing his tricks or a chef guarding his recipes?
He must catch the wonder on my face because he grins, stands up, and sorts through the pile before pulling out a wad of paper.
“You know, I usually don’t share unfinished work. Bad luck.” He shrugs. “But fuck it. I’ll show you this draft I was about to throw away. I mean, it probably looks like a foreign language to you.”
I look at him, then at the crumpled paper he tosses onto the table.
I smooth out the wrinkles, and run my fingers over the notes.
It’s so easy for him to assume I can’t read sheet music, but the truth is, I can. This piece of paper he wants to throw away is a collection of complex notes, dynamics, articulations, tempo markings, and more—forming a masterpiece.
My eyes glide over the staves as I hum the melody in my mind. I want to tell him he can’t throw this away, that this composition is truly exceptional. But I don’t. Because I know for sure he won’t let go until I tell him where I learned, how I did, and what I play.
And I don’t want to go there. Not now. Not ever. So I play along, handing the paper back with a practiced smile.
“Looks complex. Maybe you should reconsider before throwing it away. Play it out loud, record and listen back. It might give you new insights.”
A grin spreads across his face as he snaps his fingers.
“See? You get it. That’s why I haven’t shredded it yet. I was supposed to go to Calvin’s this weekend to work on it in his studio, but he’s spinning at some EDM festival in Miami. I guess it’s another weekend in paradise jail for me.”
He sighs. I know I shouldn’t, but how on earth am I supposed to ignore those sad sapphire-blue puppy eyes? I tap my fingers on the table, imagining all the worst-case scenarios in my head. What I’m about to do is highly unconventional. There are even rules for this. What if I just bend them a little? No one needs to know. And if they do, I’ll come up with something.
“Want to catch some waves tomorrow?”
He flares up.
“As in…surfing? You surf? Of course you do.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
“Only if you feel like it.”
“Yeah, I would love that.”
