Page 102 of The Sound of Harmony

ChapterTwenty-Seven

Emma’s apartment was so small that she could see most of it in one glance. When she came home, she didn’t like what she saw—stacks of paper and mounds of dishes and towers of books. Now that she was back to straightening up other people’s houses, she was shocked at how disgusting she’d let her own place get. How could she have gone a whole week without sorting mail or putting away her clothes?

Time to get back to it.

Emma tied her hair into a ponytail, glad she was still wearing her work jeans and comfortable shirt. She rarely wore shoes indoors, but today, she kept her cleaning shoes on her feet. She was hiring herself. She was a worthy project, one worth treating with the same care she’d treat her clients. She’d listen to herself, ask herself the important questions, and put her apartment—and herself—back into harmony.

Starting was the hard part. Once she got going, she relaxed into the Zen of tidying, letting her hands lead the way. She picked up the first thing in front of her, and as she put it away, she’d find the next thing, and the next. The more she accomplished, the calmer she became.

She found the box of business cards from Mitch at the bottom of a stack of bills and dumped them into the recycle bin, listening first to the swish of the cards, then to the satisfying clunk of the box hitting the side of the bin. She gave it a firm nod, then turned to the next thing in front of her. Dishes led to dusting which led to making the bed.

Finally, she got to the clothes on her bedroom floor that she’d been walking through all week. She heaved handfuls of fabric at the laundry basket, finding her Coach purse and the heels she’d worn on Saturday night at the bottom of the pile.

She popped the heels into a box on the highest shelf in the back of her closet. When would she need shoes that fancy? Maybe not for a long time. Maybe not ever. She opened the purse to empty it before stashing it away.

Her hand closed around a glossy booklet with several stapled pages—the program from the concert. She remembered Gwendolyn handing it to her as they entered the auditorium, but they were late, and she was excited, and she’d stuffed it into her purse, intending to read it later.

She hadn’t even looked at it until now and she saw no reason to save it. Just like the business cards, she could toss this into the recycle bin with no regrets.

She marched to the kitchen, but hesitated with her hand over the bin. Maybe she’d take one quick look. It would be nice to know what title Kendrick had given his piece. She supposed their piece was most accurate, even though only she and Kendrick knew the truth.

She skipped the performers’ bios and the ads and flipped to the page with the actual music pieces listed. And then she had to sit down on the kitchen floor for a moment, hugging herself, rubbing her arms as if she were freezing. But she wasn’t cold. She was burning with shame.

She stared at the program in the quiet kitchen. The fridge hummed. The heating system kicked on. The dishwasher finished its cycle. And still Emma stared, rewinding the whole last week and upending all of her assumptions.

Listening. He’d called the piece Listening. And that wasn’t all. Her name was listed as a co-composer. Kendrick had done all that work, put in all those hours, all that thought and frustration. That creativity. He’d made the connections to get it performed and attended the rehearsals. And still, he’d listed her name, as if she’d done something special, something more than stand in his kitchen and sing a few stupid measures.

Kendrick had taken her idea and made it so much better, but he still wanted to honor her. He wouldn’t leave her behind or ignore her contribution.

And what had she done in return? She’d belittled him. She’d yelled at him and embarrassed him in front of his friends and fans. No wonder he’d been so hurt and confused. When he’d asked her to go take a bow with him, she thought he wanted her as a trophy, as some sort of proof of his manhood, when what he wanted was just the opposite. He wanted her to have the applause.

Emma dropped the program and put her hands over her eyes. “What have I done?” she groaned. She’d accused Kendrick of being like Jonah, but he was nothing like her ex. He was better than Jonah Dalton in every way. He was clever and fun and gentle and considerate.

He was also ambitious, but not in a competitive way. In fact, she was the one who’d acted like Jonah on Saturday, thinking that someone else’s accomplishments diminished hers.

If only she’d listened to Kendrick. If only she’d let him speak instead of attacking him. If only she’d checked her own ego, and her own fear, long enough to read the damned program.

Being with Kendrick had led to so many new experiences. New music to listen to, new movies to watch, new food to taste, new things to try in bed. But nothing could compare to the way that Kendrick listened to her. She’d never met a man so interested in her thoughts, so respectful of her opinions, or so patient with her need for reflection. She’d never met a man like him and doubted she ever would again.

This was all her fault. If she hadn’t opened her mouth, if she hadn’t been singing that day…

Emma leapt to her feet and gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, leaning over the sink. She grabbed a cup and got herself a drink of water with shaking hands. It wasn’t the song that was the problem. Not at all. It was her reaction to it. She’d told herself that she was inventing it on the spot. She thought that was bad, because she wasn’t the kind of person who wrote music. Not anymore.

But it was worse than that.

So much worse.

She hadn’t made up the song. At least, not right then. It wasn’t invented. It was remembered. It was the song she’d been working on when she left Jonah, and she’d buried it so deep that she thought she’d forgotten it forever. But after one night with a musician, that song had popped back into her conscious mind.

The mere thought of that had freaked her out so badly she’d tried to deny that part of herself, and she’d been upset when Kendrick enjoyed it and wanted to hear more. She’d blamed him for everything that came after because she wasn’t ready to open herself up like that, to let him see all of her.

Enough of that. Enough holding back. She was ready to reclaim the person she once was, and hoped with all her heart that Kendrick could forgive her.

Emma rushed to the door. She knew what she had to do. She already had her shoes on, but she needed a coat to go out. Where was her coat? It was hanging in the closet, of course, right where she’d put it. Same with her purse. Thank goodness for an organized apartment because her thoughts were too scattered and something needed to make sense. It took her two tries to zip her coat with shaking hands, but she finally got it. She locked the apartment and rushed to her truck. She needed to talk to Gwendolyn, but she could call on the way.

Kendrick’s new composition was making him nervous. On one hand, he’d never had an easier time writing a piece of music. It gushed out of him at a manic pace as every note floated onto the page. On the other hand, what if it was all an illusion? What if easier didn’t mean better? What if he was fooling himself?

He texted Ben. After explaining the situation, he warned Ben that he’d be asking him to listen to the new piece when it was done. I need you to tell me the truth, he said.