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What if there wasn’t a solution? What if this was it?
“Can I tell you a story, heartthrob?” she asked with a mischievous lilt to her voice.
He rested his chin on the top of her head, welcoming the return of her sassy side. “Okay,” he answered, grateful to focus on something besides his shitstorm of a life.
“It’s about a bright-eyed hellion of a girl named Harper Barbara Presley, and it’ll come as no surprise to you that she got into loads of trouble in elementary school.”
He hummed his amusement. “Go on.”
“School didn’t come easy for me either. I used to copy off Penny, Charlotte, and Libby as far back as kindergarten,” she shared, her tone losing the snark and taking on a contemplative quality. “Back then, I didn’t realize my brain worked differently. It wasn’t until third grade or fourth grade when it really hit. My friends were into those Baby-Sitter Club books, and I didn’t want to be left out. But I couldn’t understand how they could read them so quickly. I didn’t know what was wrong with me, and I didn’t want them to see me as different. And this frustration didn’t help me make good choices. It’s safe to say I was a bit of a menace.”
“A menace? You?” he teased.
“Okay, an epically gigantic menace,” she conceded with a hum of a laugh. “My teachers equated my learning issues with my bad behavior. They would tell me I’d be fine if I paid attention and tried my hardest. But what they didn’t realize was that it took an insane amount of energy and concentration for me to do any academic task. It was exhausting, and then I figured out that if I got in trouble, I’d get sent to the principal’s office instead of having to complete the assignments. But then, everything changed.”
“What happened?”
“One day, after my grandmother had to pick me up from the principal’s office for the gazillionth time, she asked why I couldn’t follow the rules. I told her it wasn’t the rules. It was me. I couldn’t do what my friends could do, and I needed a way to make the letters stop shifting. That’s when she told me that letters and music notes used to do that to her. Back when she was a kid, nobody discussed neurodiversity. She happened upon underlining with colored pencils when she was in sixth grade, and that’s how she coped. It gave her brain a structure. She did the same thing with music and figured out a way to thrive. She’s played all over the world. She’s a success by any measure.”
He weaved his hand into her hair and played with the silky tendrils. “I understand what you’re trying to tell me. But you were a kid when you found a system that worked for you, and so was your grandmother. I’m thirty-three years old, Harper. I don’t know how to move forward.”
There it was.
His dark truth.
It was like being trapped between the voice in his head, telling him he couldn’t do it, and the pull of his heartstrings, urging him to make good on the promise he’d made to Leighton and Trey.
He released his hold on her and scrubbed his hands down his jawline. “I’ve had years to write. If I couldn’t do it then, what’s different about now? And honestly, would anyone even care if I faded into obscurity?”
The compassion in her expression hardened into irritation. “You promised the people you loved the most that you’d try. Promises matter. Not to mention, your fans would care.”
“My fans embroider my face onto cushions.”
She poked him in the chest. “Don’t do that. Don’t be a giant prick and talk shit about the people who love your music.”
“I’m not saving the world, Harper. I’m just singing songs.”
She plucked a bonbon from the Scrabble box and jammed it in her mouth. “You can really be a first-class douche nozzle when you want to,” she replied through her rage chewing.
“What are you talking about? I just spilled my guts to you.”
“Yeah, I heard you, and my heart goes out to you. But you need to get one thing straight, mister.”
“And what’s that?” he fired back.
“Your music is important to millions of people. And if you couldn’t tell from the giant pile of Heartthrob Warfare memorabilia in my room, your music is important to me. My grandfather and I used to listen to your albums in the car.”
Fat chance of that!
“Your grandfather, a symphony conductor, listened to a pop band?”
She had to be making it up.
“Yeah,” she snapped, looking ready to snap his neck. “Every Tuesday and Thursday night when my grandfather schlepped me across town to my piano lessons.”
“You got him to listen to Heartthrob Warfare in the car?”
“I did. And he loved every minute of it. We’d sing along, harmonizing with you, and then when he died…” She paused, then rested her palms on the counter and studied the row of photos on the windowsill.
