Page 41 of Fractured Heart

“I don’t—” I start to deny it, even though it’s obviously true, but JJ doesn’t let me finish.

“Yes, you do. You’re scared of me.”

“I’m not.” It’s not JJ I’m scared of, but my gaze is glued to the protein shake in his hand and I realize I’m trembling.

JJ shakes his head and backs away from me. He dumps his protein shake in the sink and storms out of the living room. By the time he emerges in jeans and a plaid shirt, water bottle in hand, my heart rate has slowed and I’ve stopped shaking.

“JJ, I’m sorry.”

“No.” He holds up a hand. “I’m the one who should be sorry. Not you.”

“But—” I start to argue but he slams out the front door, leaving me alone in the empty apartment.

Chapter 21

Guilt washes over me as I sit alone in the empty apartment. The rain drums lightly against the windows and my half-finished omelet grows cold on my plate.

JJ left because of me. Because I projected my problems with Father onto him. I basically accused him of being a drunk, even if I didn’t come right out and say it. He welcomed me into his home and how did I repay him? I made him leave.

I force myself to finish the food he worked so painstakingly hard to make for me. I won’t insult him by throwing it out, even if I can’t enjoy it.

What was once a tantalizing explosion of flavors now tastes like guilt. It makes my stomach roil and I down a full cup of coffee before it settles.

The least I can do is clean up. I get to work, humming my favorite Cinderella song as I clear the counter. It feels wrong. I’m not a servant anymore…I’m more like an ungrateful guest. I’m the reason JJ stormed out.

I make sure his kitchen’s spotless before I make my way to the couch. For the first time since Mom died, I have no responsibilities. No school, no chores, no worries, and no way to make myself useful.

There’s a huge, curved TV that’s mounted on the wall. I wish I had my laptop so I could cast some musicals onto the big screen.

Even more than that, I wish I had my laptop so I could go over my compositions. I have them all backed up to the cloud, so at least I don’t have to worry about Father destroying them.

Now, if I can only find a way to compose without my software.

It takes a second and then I jump to my feet. I shouldn’t, I really shouldn’t, but there’s absolutely nothing else for me to do until this afternoon’s rehearsal. And that’s hours away. Plus, it’s not like I can text Tate and ask for permission. I’m sure he won’t mind. Hopefully?

I feel a sliver of guilt as I cross the living room and sneak into the room where I changed last night. The room that held books, sports equipment, and Tate’s guitar.

It calls to me, like a siren singing my name. I approach it slowly, my gaze caressing its wooden surface.

It’s even more beautiful than I remember from when I got a glimpse at it last night. It’s a work of art: sleek and shining with silvery frets.

Somehow, it manages to look brand new and well-loved all at once. Tate’s clearly taken expert care of this instrument. The steel strings shine both with the fruits of careful maintenance and the loving engagement of constant practice. It glows with love.

I carefully carry the guitar back to the couch, terrified that I might trip or drop it.

When I’m safely seated, I hold Tate’s instrument reverently. I run my fingers gently over the strings, making sure each one is perfectly tuned, and then I start to play.

It’s been months since I’ve held a guitar and it’s like getting reacquainted with an old friend. There’s something magical that happens when my songs travel through my fingers, something beautiful about creating music with an instrument instead of computer software.

The songs I wrote since graduation feel different. The guitar lets me focus more on my vocals. As I play, I realize I don’t need the symphony of loops and backup tracks I’ve gotten used to adding digitally. The version I’m playing now is more authentic. Stripped down. Honest.

The rain provides the slow tempo of a metered beat. It’s just me and Tate’s guitar, playing our way through the silent morning.

I forget that JJ left and still hasn’t come back. I forget that I kissed both Tate and Charles. I forget that Father might come after me. I forget that I have no place to live and twenty dollars to my name. I forget everything—everything except my music.

Minutes blend into hours. I modify my songs, though I have no way to record the new versions. I let myself get lost in the magic of fairy tales. I let myself live in the moment.

Someone pounds at the door.