Page 93 of The Sound of Harmony

Too bad I couldn’t be that clever. Emma had come into his life when he was feeling broken and afraid. She promised a way to control at least one small part of his life. And he’d clung to that promise, and to her, even though the two of them together made no sense. A woman who’d learned to hate and fear music could never fall in love with a man who’d made music his life.

Better that they realized this now. Two such different people would never understand each other. It was useless to even try.

Kendrick rubbed his right ear, feeling something he’d never felt from that ear before. Pain. No, it wasn’t his ear that hurt. It was both ears. His head. His neck. Everything ached. He put his hands on his knees.

Ben was right there. “Are you okay?”

Raine was on his other side, her hand on his back, taking his wine glass. “No, he’s not okay. Look at him.”

Kendrick took a deep breath and forced himself to straighten. He looked them in the eye and composed his expression. “I’m fine. But I think I’d better call it a night.” Before I fall down or puke all over this reception.

“Of course,” Ben said. “We’ll take you home.”

“No, no, don’t do that.” Kendrick waved him off. Ben and Raine were staying the night in Columbus, planning on meeting him for brunch tomorrow in Cannondale before heading back to Maryland. “My cousin is my ride, and he’s around here somewhere. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

Mitch had ghosted him. His SUV was gone and he wasn’t answering his phone, so Kendrick took a Lyft. He declined both music and conversation with his driver and spent the silent ride hating his life.

When he got home, he unknotted his bowtie and shrugged out of his jacket while climbing the stairs to his bedroom. He couldn’t wait to take off this stupid tuxedo.

He’d been so proud to wear it. He couldn’t stop thinking about Emma seeing him in it, and how much she also wanted to see him out of it. He didn’t want to undress himself. He wanted Emma to be here to do it.

He wanted her here, period.

He threw the jacket and pants on the floor, then thought better of it and hung them up. He’d been trained too well. Always put your flute away after you play it. Always put your music back in your folder. Always hang up your concert clothes after you wear them.

He retrieved the program he’d carefully folded and put in the inside pocket of his jacket. He smoothed it out, running his fingers over the words of the first piece. The title: Listening. Then the artists: Kendrick Bell and Emma Gibson.

He changed into sweats and went back downstairs. Thanks to Emma’s impeccable organization, he knew where to find his concert programs. He opened the low cabinet in the sitting room, which was full of neat rows of labeled storage containers.

He remembered teasing Emma about the labels. He remembered asking why he needed containers all the same size and shape when he already had everything in old shoe boxes. She’d patiently explained her organizational system, and how much easier it would be to find things.

And here he was, proving her right. Dammit.

He collapsed on the floor and held his head in his hands. He thought about the day he’d first met Emma. Every detail was etched in his mind. The way she stood next to her truck, the dappled sun shining through the maple leaves and glinting off her hair. The breeze rustling through the trees. The way she held her clipboard, and the secret smile they’d shared when she sent Ben to her truck for sticky notes she didn’t need.

He thought about Emma picking the perfect piano for him, the perfect furniture, the perfect everything, as if she’d read his mind and knew what he wanted.

But mostly, he thought about how Emma sounded. The way her voice seemed the ideal pitch for him to hear. The way it bounced to a higher register when she was happy. The little coo she’d give whenever they passed a cute dog on the street. The squeal of delight when he tickled her neck with his whiskers. The low murmurs when they were together in bed. Her soft sighs of pleasure.

Would he ever hear that again?

He’d wanted so badly to introduce her to his music—to his world. He wanted to share that part of himself with her, but he’d never considered what it had cost her to let him in. She’d opened herself up to being hurt the same way she’d been hurt before.

Did he have that same courage?

He’d kept so much from her. Pretending he was just tired when he was too dizzy to get out of bed. Holding onto walls or the backs of chairs to keep himself upright. Always seating her on his left, pretending his headaches could be cured with a few Tylenol. Never letting her drive him to the doctor. Never letting her see the inside of the clinic.

He added the concert program to the box and closed the cabinet doors. He moved to the piano and brushed his hands over the keys, playing thirds and fifths and other intervals. Music was a constant. Middle C would always be middle C, with everyone using the same pitch. Everyone agreed on the intervals between notes and what they were called.

Kendrick had moved from city to city all over the world, but music had traveled with him. He might get lost in a new town, not speak the language, be without friends, but music was always there for him. Musical notation made sense. The repeating octaves, the circle of fifths and the elegantly mathematical relationships between notes was universally understood, regardless of instrument. He could speak to anyone, anywhere, through music.

But not Emma. She wouldn’t listen to him now, and her silence was complete. There had been some kind of fatal breakdown of communication, as if they were playing in two different key signatures, wondering why they couldn’t agree on sharps and flats.

Kendrick hit the piano keys with more purpose now, hoping for a new sound to drown out the thoughts in his head. But he kept coming back to his conversations with Gwendolyn and Brooke, the way they said that she’d lost something in her marriage—no, that something had been taken from her.

On a hunch, he flipped open his laptop and Googled Jonah Dalton. This time, he skipped the gossip sites and industry news. He was here to listen to the actual songs. He set aside his distaste for country music, looked past the costumes and showmanship, the flag-waving and machismo. He concentrated on the melodies, the harmonies, and the lyrics.

It took longer than he liked, and he became more familiar with Dalton’s discography than he wanted to, but the pattern was easy to hear once he knew what he was listening for. Dalton’s music changed when Emma left him. The word that popped into his mind was cheaper. The music lost a layer of complexity to become shallow drivel. As one music reviewer put it, “It could be anyone’s pickup truck they’re climbing into.”