“Get this—Cass wants a choir to accompany us for the last chorus. A fucking choir. We’ve been rehearsing this piece for weeks, Garrett. It was supposed to be simple and understated, just the two of us showcasing our voices, and suddenly he wants to make a huge production out of it?”
“He sounds like a diva.”
“He totally is. I’m ready to rip his head off.” My anger is so visceral it coats my throat and makes my hands tremble. “And then, if that’s not infuriating enough, two minutes before rehearsal ends he decides we should change the arrangement.”
“What’s wrong with the arrangement?”
“Nothing. Nothing is wrong with the arrangement. And Mary Jane—the girl who wrote the fucking song—is just sitting there saying nothing! I don’t know if she’s scared of Cass or in love with him or who the hell knows what, but she’s no help at all. She clams up whenever we start fighting, when what she should be doing is voicing an opinion and trying to resolve the issue.”
Garrett purses his lips. Sort of like the way my grandma does when she’s deep in thought. It’s kind of adorable.
But he’d probably kill me if I told him he just reminded me of my grandmother.
“What?” I prompt when he doesn’t speak.
“I want to hear this song.”
Surprise filters through me. “What? Why?”
“Because you’ve been babbling about it since the moment I met you.”
“This is the first time I’ve ever brought it up!”
He responds with that flippant hand-waving thing again, which I’m starting to suspect he does often. “Well, I want to hear it. If this Mary Jane chick doesn’t have the balls to offer legitimate criticism, then I’ll do it.” He shrugs. “Maybe your duet partner—what’s his name again?”
“Cass.”
“Maybe Cass is right and you’re just too stubborn to see it.”
“Trust me, he’s wrong.”
“Fine, then let me be the judge. Sing both versions of the song for me—the way it is now, and the way Cass wants it—and I’ll tell you what I think. You play, right?”
I furrow my brow. “Play what?”
Garrett rolls his eyes. “Instruments.”
“Oh. Yeah, I do. Piano and guitar…why?”
“I’ll be right back.”
He ducks out of the room and I hear his footsteps thud in the hall, followed by the sound of a door creaking open. He returns with an acoustic guitar in hand.
“Tuck’s,” he explains. “He won’t mind if you play it.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m not serenading you.”
“Why not? You feeling self-conscious or something?”
“No. I just have better things to do.” I give him a pointed look. “Like help you pass your midterm.”
“We’re almost done with postmodernism. All the hard stuff starts next session.” His voice takes on a teasing note. “C’mon, we’ve got time. Let me hear it.”
Then he flashes that boyish grin, and damned if I don’t cave. He really has mastered that little boy look. Except he’s not a little boy. He’s a man with a big, strong body and a chin that lifts in determination. Teasing grins aside, I know Garrett will harass me all night if I don’t agree to sing.
I accept the guitar and plop it in my lap, giving it a few test strums. It’s in tune, a bit tinnier than the acoustic I have at home, but the sound is great.
Garrett climbs on the bed and lies down, resting his head on a mountain of pillows. I’ve never met anyone who sleeps with so many pillows. Maybe he needs them to cradle his massive ego.
“Okay,” I tell him. “This is how we’re doing it now. Pretend there’s a guy joining me in the first chorus, and then singing the second verse.”
I know a lot of singers who are too shy to perform in front of strangers, but I’ve never had that problem. Ever since I was a kid, music has always been an escape for me. When I sing, the world disappears. It’s just me and the music and a deep sense of tranquility that I’ve never been able to find anywhere else, no matter how hard I try.
I take a breath, play the opening chords, and start to sing. I don’t look at Garrett because I’m already somewhere else, lost in the melody and the words, wholly focused on the sound of my voice and the resonance of the guitar.
I love this song. I truly do. It’s hauntingly beautiful, and even without Cass’s rich baritone to complement my voice, it still packs the same punch, the same heart-wrenching emotion that MJ poured into the lyrics.
Almost immediately, my head clears and my heart feels lighter. I am whole again, because the music has made me that way, just like it did after the rape. Whenever things got too overwhelming or painful, I’d go to the piano or pick up my guitar, and I’d know joy wasn’t out of reach. It was always within my grasp, always available to me as long as I was able to sing.
Several minutes later, the final note lingers in the air like a trace of sweet perfume, and I float back to the present. I turn to Garrett, but his face is expressionless. I don’t know what I was expecting him to do. Praise me? Mock me?
But I hadn’t expected silence.
“Do you want to hear Cass’s version?” I hedge.
He nods. That’s it. A quick jerk of the head and nothing more.
His shuttered face unsettles me, so this time I close my eyes when I sing. I move the bridge to where Cass argued it should be, add a second chorus like he insisted, and I honestly don’t think I’m biased when I say I prefer the original. This second version drags, and the extra chorus is overkill.