Page 96 of The Sound of Harmony

“Like that’s possible?” Kendrick asked with a smile.

They shook hands and turned it into a back-slapping hug that lingered long enough to show that all was forgiven. “Thank you for coming to the shit show,” Kendrick told him. “And for putting up with me.”

Ben slapped his back one more time. “I’m going to miss you, man.”

Raine squeezed him tight. “I’m sorry, hon. I’m sorry about your ear and your music and your girlfriend.”

“She’s not—she was, but she isn’t. I don’t think—yeah. I think Emma and I…”

“Maybe you’re doing too much thinking.” Raine put her palm over his heart for the briefest moment before sliding into the passenger seat of Ben’s car. They both waved as Ben drove away.

Kendrick spent the next two days in his own personal hell. The worst attack of vertigo he’d ever had kept the room spinning for eighteen hours straight. As he was heaving up his guts for the third time, all he could think about was Emma, glad she wasn’t here to see this. She deserved so much better. She deserved a whole man. Someone who wouldn’t let her down.

She deserved someone who could make her happy.

On Tuesday, when he finally started feeling like himself again, he wandered through his empty house, putting away dishes, folding clothes, cleaning out the fridge—anything that could distract him. But it only made him miserable. He was using every skill that Emma had taught him, keeping things organized the way she’d organize them. Even worse, he wanted to. Doing it her way felt right.

When he walked into the kitchen, he’d hear Emma singing. When he tried to sleep in his bed, he’d hear Emma’s sighs of pleasure. Even the burble of his little fountain made him think of Emma more than his grandmother.

Why had he ever taken on this house? Why did he ever think he could live here? It was too much for one person. This giant house. This giant yard. What was someone like him doing with a yard? He wasn’t well enough for this.

He stood on his front porch, glaring at the grass that needed cutting, the leaves that needed raking, and the rosebushes that needed pruning.

Mitch was right. Emma too. Everyone had tried to tell him that those bushes were overgrown and gangly. They were not unique. They were not special. There was no reason for them to stay. But did he listen? No.

Well, he’d listen now. It was time for those unwelcome plants to go.

He didn’t have pruning tools, but he had kitchen scissors. He marched outside, not bothering with gloves or even a long-sleeved shirt. He cut off the first stem with a satisfying snip. Another click of the scissors, and another bloom fell. The third one bit back as a thorn scraped the side of his ring finger.

Kendrick swore loud enough for the neighbors to hear, but he didn’t care about that. He cut and hacked at the roses, cursing all the while as they tore up his hands. When the bushes were nothing but stubs, he got a shovel and jabbed at the roots.

Stupid common roses, thinking they belonged here, thinking this was their home, thinking that anyone wanted them. Nothing was meant to have roots that deep. Things were meant to come and go.

Life was like music. It wasn’t a static thing you could capture. You had to play the next note and the next. You needed a variety of rhythms, not the steady beat of a metronome from birth to death.

He left the ruined roses on the lawn, their stems littering the grass and their red petals scattering in the wind. He marched back into the house and grabbed his phone with a dirty, bloodied hand. He held it up to his left ear.

“Hey, Mitch,” he said when his cousin picked up. “Remember when you priced my house for me, in case I wanted to list it?”

“Yes?” Mitch said, drawing out the word. “You said you weren’t serious. You just wanted numbers.”

“It’s serious now. Bring me the contract. I’m moving out.”