Hidden Tracks

by Zoe Lee

  Shaking minutely, she gasped out wretchedly, “That’s not fair. We can’t even begin to have this conversation when you don’t know where you’re going.”

  “You’ve lived through some intense shit; I can’t pretend I know how hard it was to get whole and happy again and build a new career when I’m sure it was a struggle,” he answered, his temper fraying. “But I am not Barley Finn and he sure as fuck wasn’t me, was he, sweetheart? You were nineteen then and you may have known, but you didn’t know.”

  She pinned him with one of her glares and snapped, “I have absolutely never thought you and Barley were the same in any real way, although you have some of the same gifts.”

  “But right now, you’re shutting a door,” he argued, and a wounded sound escaped from her throat. “Because it sounds like you’re saying this will go one way if I say I’m absolutely never going to say yes to Downbeat—or any band—and it will go the other way if I say I am. And it sounds like you’re saying that only because of what happened to you before.”

  A hideous laugh ripped out of her, stripping her throat raw. “I should never have—”

  “Stop right fucking there,” he growled, the first true sign of temper he’d ever shown her. “Stop right fucking there. I don’t want to hear the fucking end of that sentence.”

  “I should leave,” she choked out, jumping to her feet.

  But he jerked out of his chair so they were almost nose-to-nose—and she didn’t leave.

  He took the chance and plowed on, serious and intent and right, “Life isn’t linear. It’s a Mobius strip, past becoming present becoming future becoming present becoming past, but every cycle isn’t the same, it’s an infinite loop with infinite possibilities. So, yeah, maybe there are surface similarities between where I am now and where you were before, but you’re already in my soul, Astrid. We’ve got to deal with this. That’s why I asked for your opinion.”

  She sucked in a tearful breath. “I-I’m sorry, but I know who I am and what I want,” she choked out. “I already went on an adventure where we figured it out together, where we spent half the time trying to do what we thought would make the other happy and half the time doing what we needed to do for ourselves. And eventually it was a terrible mess. I couldn’t tell the difference between my true feelings and what I thought I ought to feel to make Barley happy and proud of me. So I… need to leave. I-I hope you figure yourself out.”

  Before he could process it, before he could wipe away the tears leaking down her face, she’d fled. His body jerked, instinctively starting to run after her, but he caught himself.

  “Seth?” Tristan murmured, coming up to him and putting a light hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m a fucking mess,” he repeated himself, hoarse and stripped raw, throwing his own words back in his own face, what had been a warning now a sign of defeat. “And I lost her.”

  “It’s going to be okay, kid,” Trentham said, appearing on Seth’s other side. “How about we play Never Have I Ever and you can kick all our asses? I bet Tristan’s got a full bar.”

  That sounded like a terrible plan, juvenile and avoidant—and Seth loved it.

  Which was how he found himself so drunk that he could see the earth spinning on its axis from his back on Tristan’s lawn, only Tristan, Trentham, Xavier, and Dunk still there.

  “Did I ever tell you about Timothy Winterbottom?” Trentham slurred.

  “With a name like that, I need to know everything,” Dunk encouraged.

  “He was so pretty,” Trentham gushed, which wasn’t something he ever did sober. “And he was really fucking pale so his bottom was as pale as winter. But it was also… so hot.”

  They all dissolved into drunken, immature laughter, and by the time it had run its course, they’d all forgotten what they were talking about, and Seth wondered, “Should I have just told Astrid that I’m in love with her? That I’d do whatever it takes for a chance?”

  “No!” they all shouted back at him immediately.

  “Why not?” he shouted back petulantly. “I didn’t, you know, lay my case out. It felt right to say all the honest shit I did say. Y’all know I appreciate the concept of things happening for a reason, right when they should. And if she still walked off all I hope you’re happy, Seth, which is such a rude thing to say to someone when you’re leaving, fine, okay. I absolutely honor other people’s choices. But that doesn’t mean I had to let her go without laying my feelings down at her feet honestly. What if Astrid haunts me from now on, too?”

  “Oh, kid,” Xavier wailed. “We never should have asked you to come back!”

  “Nah, it means a lot that you did,” Seth reassured him, patting Xavier’s face clumsily.

  “What are you going to do?” Dunk asked after a few minutes of stargazing. Seth made a weird questioning noise, but Dunk knew exactly what it meant and elaborated, “Like, you do the big show in Chicago, see how people reacted, see how much the band wants you to come back cause you’re talented and everyone loves you, blah, blah. Now you’re back here and you say no thanks to the band. But like, didn’t your mind get blown? So… what’s next?”

  Seth’s thoughts were erratic, like a radio station going in and out during a thunderstorm, but he nodded sagely and sighed, “I really liked singing ‘Fireside’. I haven’t played anything of mine in… forever. Mine, meaning, I wrote it for me. Or me and Hedda.”

  “You been writing for yourself?” Trentham asked.

  “Uh huh.”

  “How much, kid?”

  All of the notebooks and sheet music floated across his mind’s eye and he actually winced while he admitted, “A shit load. I couldn’t… for a while. But then it… came back.”

  “You can’t let it just stay locked up in your studio,” Xavier cried, horrified.

  “But I love writing for y’all, and everyone else,” Seth reassured him.

  “Then we’ll write,” Trentham confirmed. “But just, like, maybe not tomorrow…”

  “You got to do something, Xavier’s right,” Dunk yelled excitedly, sitting up all of a sudden and then smacking his hands down onto Seth’s stomach. “Something cooler than playing at your own restaurant, man. Something where you can just wail. Is that the word?”

  “God damn right it’s the right word,” Xavier cheered.

  “But I love my life here,” Seth protested.

  “So do something cooler here,” Dunk suggested.

  “I…” Now the stars started spinning again, not because Seth was drunker, but because the galaxy was rearranging itself a little bit, making him look at it from another angle. “I could try recording some of my own stuff. Just to see how it feels.”

  “If we flew all the way to see you, so would other friends,” Xavier said.

  “Get a professional-grade recording studio. Your attic’s a little cramped.”

  Something… excited clutched Seth and he sat up too, staring at Dunk with wide, glittering eyes. Dunk clapped him on the back and bobbed his head enthusiastically. “I do have a nest egg and a storage unit full of other recording equipment… and a ton of music… and a lot of musician friends. They could play on my stuff, even if it’s just messing around, and then I could record their stuff. And Wild Harts has a fourth manager, it’s not like I’d leave anybody in the lurch if I started a little side project for fun…”

  He was dizzy with the possibilities.

  “You did say the acoustics at the old bottling factory kick ass,” Tristan reminded him.

  “Holy shit,” Seth whispered.

  “Fuck yeah,” Dunk yelled. “Leda’s going to be so pissed she wasn’t here for this. Wait. No. She’ll still find a way to claim all the credit for this fucking awesome idea.”

  “Now, sing it out,” Xavier roared.

  Seth thought about it, snickered, and then launched into ‘Stronger (What Doesn’t Kill You)’. Xavier banged out the beat on Trentham’s huge thighs and Dunk jumped unsteadily to his feet, then almost yanked Seth’s arm out of the socket p
ulling him up too. He began jumping around, arms up in the air, and Tristan lost it, all of his composure crumpling under Dunk’s total commitment to dancing. Seth just sang louder, grinning ear to ear for the first time in what felt like forever, letting sadness ground him while excitement gave him wings.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Astrid

  Astrid barely slept last night, frantic to unpack everything that had happened from Seth and Gin’s duet at Wild Harts to the minute she ran away from Tristan’s. The tornado of emotions she’d felt yesterday meant that she wasn’t sure she even remembered what they’d said, what tone they’d used, or the order of the words. By the time it was morning, all she knew for sure was that Seth had been invited to rejoin Downbeat and she’d denied whatever he was offering.

  Somehow she was able to get ready for the day and then get to the café Seth had stopped at yesterday, right when it opened at six-thirty. She took her coffee and bagel outside and across the street to Maybelle Square, trying to figure out if she should just write off the Downbeat story as a total failure or if she should try to get in touch with them.

  Rounding the gazebo, she almost ran into someone.

  Looking up, she saw it was Leda, scowling at her. “Oh. It’s you.” Leda’s distrustful gaze scored Astrid up and down and all of Astrid’s self-doubts manifested in an uncontrollable sob. “Shit. Okay. Sit down.” She took Astrid’s arm firmly and dragged her to the nearest park bench. “Sit down, damn it,” she repeated. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

  “I don’t pass out,” Astrid managed to inform her haughtily, between sobs.

  Pacing in front of her, Leda’s scowl came back, along with her pointer finger waving all over to punctuate her angry tumble of accusatory words. “When Aden and Dunk convinced you to go see Seth, I thought for sure you’d chew him up and spit him out. Get him out of his studio, even if it was just to escape you interrogating him or spewing a bunch of gossip.”

  Astrid wanted to protest the slander, but Leda didn’t seem to need to breathe, so there wasn’t any space to even try to interrupt… and besides, she was still sobbing a little.

  “He’s got the patience of a fucking saint, but he really doesn’t like gossip. And he definitely never wants to spend time with people whose job it is to make them talk about themselves. He hates people who love talking about themselves. Shallow fucks,” Leda ranted on. “But now here you are—crying and about to pass out in the gazebo on the Square.”

  “I—”

  “No, you can just be quiet. You think I don’t know who you are? You think we didn’t look you up the second you got here and someone recognized you?” She scoffed exaggeratedly. “Please. We might live in a small town, but we have the internet. We know you were in Chicago. Xavier Talon told us you interviewed them. And Seth. So what the holy fuck would we conclude but that you’re here writing a story about my baby brother?”

  “That’s only part of it—”

  “Yeah, obviously,” Leda shot back caustically, rolling her eyes like a teenager.

  Unbelievably, after everything that had happened in the last few days, Astrid went hot.

  Leda snorted inelegantly and carried on, building up steam. “He’s so observant and acts like he’s some Zen mystic, he forgets that we’re not fucking idiots. He forgets we have the internet too. He doesn’t always remember that he’s not the only one paying attention—”

  Suddenly her breath hitched and she burst into tears, dropping onto the bench too.

  “Are you okay?” Astrid asked cautiously.

  “Peachy,” Leda snapped out between two sobs. “I’m just so pissed at him, I—”

  But Leda looked horrified by herself, and Astrid’s eyebrows rose in concert, feeling her emotions come back to the center in the face of Leda’s distress. She crossed her legs and said smartly, “You’d better get a handle on this now, darling. It’s only going to get stronger.”

  “What?” Leda snapped.

  “Your mum must not live nearby.”

  “Our folks retired to Oregon,” Leda said, eyes narrowed. “What’s that got to do with the fact that you clearly just fucked—and then fucked up—my brother, who’s only ever been in love, like the real forever in love kind of in love, once, and you feel pretty torn up about it?”

  “If your mum lived nearby, she would have already told you those mood swings are the queen of all bitches, and they’re only going to get worse during your pregnancy,” Astrid said, succinct and matter-of-fact, enjoying a bit rudely the way Leda’s jaw dropped. When she tried to scoff and bluster her way out of it, Astrid went on mildly, “My daughter is eighteen, but I still can’t smell barbecue sauce without wanting to throw up.”

  With a groaned curse, Leda flopped back. “Fuck. No one knows. It’s too soon to tell anyone, and anyway, with Seth coming back and being sad like he hasn’t been since he first moved back… I might be famous for my temper, but even I’m not that selfish.” Then her scowl took over her face again as she leapt up, crossed her arms under her breasts and stated mulishly,“We are not having a bonding moment here. That’s not what this is. You’re the enemy. Or that’s my stance unless Seth tells me something else.”

  Astrid smoothed her hands down her thighs and then stood up too. “I understand.”

  “So what did he do?” Leda asked abruptly, just when Astrid was about to go.

  “Pardon?”

  “He never dates in Maybelle, so I don’t know what his standard method fucking up is with people, but I know they always stay friends. But you spent the night and now you’re all silent crying over there with sad red eyes and your too perfect posture, so… what’d he do?”

  Astrid wondered if this was some sort of trick, because Leda seemed the type who was so fiercely protective of those she loved that she sometimes crossed lines to protect them.

  But then Leda’s mouth twisted up, a faint echo of Seth, something Astrid was sure she would see in his mother or father if they were in a similar mood. “I take that back. Seth knows his own heart better than anyone else. So if he fucked up or he’s lying to himself, or if you’re mean or not right for him, or whatever, he’ll get where he wants to go eventually. Stubborn as the rest of us, but he’s got this patience the rest of us definitely don’t have.”

  A proud, loving smile stretched Leda’s mouth briefly.

  “It’s lovely, the way you all are together,” Astrid murmured. “I think I understand him more now that I’ve come here. But this, him, all of you…” She looked down at her hands twisting against her diaphragm, watching as teardrops landed silently, splaying out and seeping into the tiny cracks in her skin. With a growling, frustrated noise she shook her head. “My life’s looked mostly glamorous from the outside, but I’ve clawed for every fraction of it, and your brother has a lot of soul-searching to do and a lot of choices to make.”

  “But those things aren’t mutually exclusive,” Leda argued.

  “Congratulations on the baby, Leda,” Astrid said firmly and politely, then walked away.

  It was already hot and humid, but hazy, as if she were peering through a window which had been washed but not properly rinsed, leaving the colors fainter and the lines of everything indistinct. Any other time, she would have appreciated its softness, so much sweeter than the energetic, frenetically busy summers she had in the Chicago suburbs.

  But heartbreak, which had been inevitable from the very beginning, clawed into her and gripped tight, as if she were a tiny mouse and fate were a perfect, fierce predator.

  It made her angry, contorting her tiny mouse body to try to get free of the claws.

  With the anger came this deluge of opinions on Seth’s predicament that she had held at bay by sheer force of will, underpinned by this sense of hurt that some part of her future was being held hostage by his gifts and his indecision in equal measure… which was why she’d broken free of the hostage, escaped, and made the choice herself by walking away from him.

  But, God, if Seth had
n’t poured into her heart like sunlight through curtains too long shut closed so tightly that nothing came in... if he hadn’t felt like someone she’d been missing without even knowing it until she’d seen him, heard his voice, seen him play…

  What would she tell him to do? What would her almost twenty years’ experience in the performing arts conclude about him? If he were just the subject of a piece she was writing and he’d asked her for her unbiased opinion on what to do, what would she have said?

  The searing truth was that she would have told him to accept Xavier’s invitation. Or, if it held too much history or it might be shadowed by old pain, then find another band. She would have told him that his gifts were extraordinary. That his empathy outlined and his heart filled in every word he wrote and every note he sang or played. She would have told him that he had enough friends in the industry to guide him so he wouldn’t be swallowed up by a studio, a publicist, or a band that wanted to brand him or dull his intensity or calmness.

  But she wasn’t someone unbiased. She never had been, with him.

  Anger crept like an unnatural fog, filling in the shallow ditch where the foundation of the walls around her heart had been built and then burned away by knowing Seth, even in their strange, half-true, half-yearning sort of way that had been more dream than reality.

  When she went into her hotel room, she couldn’t slam the door behind her because of its door closer, so she kicked it with the toe of her shoe instead. She marched to her laptop, flipped up the lid, and started to type furiously, and that unnatural fog slithered up from the shallow ditch to form a dome of anger and insulation over her heart, making it cold and distant from the rest of her.

  So she sent it to Kayla attached to an email without a subject line, and then she curled up in the middle of the impersonal hotel bed and screamed into a pillow until the fog lifted and ragged, moaning sobs took over her body.