by Lisa Suzanne
“Fair enough,” Ethan concedes, “but that doesn’t mean it’ll work out the same way if we go in tomorrow.”
They’re talking like I’m not in the room, and suddenly it’s like I have to use every grain of self-control not to jump into the conversation.
“No, it could work out even better.” Mark turns toward me. “Maci, you said you have lyrics, right?”
I nod.
Mark’s gaze on me is intimidating, and from that one single look, I can fully see how he’s reached the level of success he has. From the outside, he looks like a hot rock star bad boy, but he’s clearly a shrewd businessman—not to mention a great friend to Ethan—beneath the surface. “You two want to tackle this or do you want me to step in?”
Ethan blows out a breath and sucks down another full beer. “You’re not giving me any choice, man.”
Mark lifts a shoulder. “Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?” he asks quietly. It’s like they’re having a private conversation I’m not privy to, but a lifetime of friendship allows for those sorts of things.
“Fine,” Ethan finally says. He doesn’t look at me when he stands and pulls another beer from the fridge. “Let’s work out the melody after dinner.”
Mark grins at me in victory, but I can’t seem to muster a smile back. I’m feeling the typical annoying girl thing where I don’t want him to do it if he’s being forced into doing it. At the same time, though, I’d rather have him next to me by force than not at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
MACI
Trying to write the music to our song after dinner is a disaster.
Mark has a home office with some studio equipment, and he lets us work in there. Alone. I’m starting to think it might’ve been better to let Mark in on this.
Ethan nixes every single one of my ideas, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s being a dick or because he thinks his ideas are better. I defer to him, but I’ve had a lot of success on my own. I have an ear for this. I’m not going to pretend like there isn’t always room for improvement, because there is...but the more we try to work out the details for this song, the more I feel like this just isn’t going to work.
And I’m not even sure if I’m still talking about just the song anymore.
He’s rude and he doesn’t care if he hurts my feelings in the process. “That note doesn’t work,” “You can sing that better,” and “The bridge needs a different melody” are all phrases he says to me, and while they might be true, they’re also said without a care for the work I put into the song already. They’re said harshly and coldly rather than from one artist who admires the work of another. I try not to take it personally, opting to hope he’s like this with everyone when he’s working to perfect a song, but I can’t help feeling it is personal. He’s mad and he’s trying to hurt me back. In my book, we should be about even now, but in his...I guess not. I guess my transgressions are worse than his.
That’s what leads me to believe this will never work between us. We’re too alike—willing to hurt those who hurt us first and hiding behind our pain with a tough façade.
“This line here,” he says, pointing to the paper. I look it over, and it’s one of my verses:
You lost me when I ran from you
I overheard your hurtful words
They broke me down, it wasn’t fair
Didn’t think you’d even care.
“What about it?” I ask. We’re sitting at a small desk across from each other, the paper between us and facing in a neutral zone so we can both read it.
“It’s missing something. ‘It wasn’t fair’ feels like a copout. Life’s not fair. Get over it.”
I give him a wounded look. I don’t remind him I know life’s not fair considering I’m carrying his child. In the grand scheme of life, that seems pretty damn unfair right at this minute. “Okay. So what do you suggest?” I ask thickly.
He keeps his eyes trained down on the paper. “How did you feel when you heard the words?”
“Exposed.” I study him even though he refuses to look at me. He’s Ethan, and just looking at him like this hurts. Just seeing him across the table—literally less than two feet away—and knowing I can’t take his hand in mine just because I feel like it, knowing I can’t lean over to give him a kiss, knowing I can’t confess how in love with him I am...it all feels like a goddamn knife right to my heart. It’s cracking, and if we’re quiet enough as we sit here, we might be able to hear it. I clear my throat in an attempt to clear out those thoughts, but it’s futile. “Like you took the one thing I was most proud of and stomped on it.”
“Then I think this line needs to say something about how those words hurt you to your core.” He says the words carefully, like he’s pulling himself from the situation—like the words in the song aren’t about him, us, our history.
“How about ‘they broke me down, stripped me bare’?”
He nods. “Better.”
I feel like I’m practically glowing at his praise, and it’s not even that powerful of a word. It’s not like he told me it’s perfect or amazing or the best thing ever. He just said it was better than the trash he thought it was before.
We finally get a melody down. As much as I figured he’d rush through it, he doesn’t. Instead, he’s meticulous. He makes me sing my part hundreds of times, and he hums through his own part equally. He has me sing his lyrics and he sings mine. It’s well past midnight when we finally finish for the night, both satisfied with the final product after five solid hours of working on it.
“Good work,” I say as we both stand to leave the office.
He glances at me, and I still see the hurt there in his expression. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t make eye contact often—he’s exposing himself through those expressive blue eyes, and he doesn’t want to admit how affected he is by forcing himself apart from me, from us.
“Yeah,” he says, and then he walks out the door. He stops and turns back toward me. “We get the studio at eleven. Let’s meet at eight to work out the kinks and make sure we’re both happy with the product.”
I nod. “That’s a good idea.”
I’m about to tell him I’ll meet him in the kitchen around seven so we can ride to the studio together when he says, “See you at the studio.” He disappears out the door and takes my heart with him once again.
I’m lying in bed less than twenty minutes later, exhausted from our work session with no breaks. I’m wondering how the hell I’m going to make it to the studio on time and have a perfect voice for recording a song on less than six hours of sleep when I hear Ethan’s voice through the wall dividing us.
“I told you a hundred times. I’m not going.”
The bed in his room must touch the same wall my bed does. His head must be just on the other side of the wall—two feet away, just like we worked all night.
I wonder who he’s talking to and where that person wants him to go. I wonder why he doesn’t want to go. The egotistical side of me wonders if it has anything to do with me.
“I don’t care. I’ve got too much shit going on.” His voice is soothing even though he isn’t talking to me and even though he’s angry. I feel like I could fall asleep here listening to him talk. It’s relaxing despite the tone—I just wish it was right here beside me rather than on the other side of the wall. I wish we were sharing a bed instead of sharing a divisive wall. I gave him more honesty in my lyrics, told him I needed him to stay with me through our song as I thought music was the one vehicle we could use to find our way back to each other, but it was ineffective.
His words about the thread come back to me, and it’s the last ounce of hope I have to hang onto. It’s unbreakable and it doesn’t mean the road will be smooth, doesn’t mean the timing will work out easily, but the gods tied them together at the ankles and they’ll find their way to each other at some point.
The road hasn’t been smooth. The timing hasn’t worked out easily. But I have to hold onto the hope we’ll find our way
back to each other.
“Then you go, Zo. If he dies, he dies. I’m the one who has to live with that, and I’ve already made my peace.”
Zo. I realize he’s talking to his sister, and Mark’s earlier words clued me in that it’s his father who’s dying and Ethan refuses to go see him to say his goodbyes. I think of my own father for a minute. If I knew he was dying, I’d be there in a second to hold his hand...and that only makes me realize I need to see him while I’m in town.
I make the decision to call him after our studio time tomorrow. I can’t be a good example to Ethan when it comes to letting go of grudges if I’m holding onto ones of my own.
One week ago was Valentine’s Day—a day I spent alone with a broken heart. What better time to hear from your long-lost daughter, right?
* * *
I get up early to shower and get some breakfast before I head to the studio. I dress warmly against the mid-February Chicago cold, and Griff picks me up, volunteering to chauffeur me around town. Part of me wonders if it’s so he can keep tabs on me around Ethan, but in the end, I don’t care. I like having him here with me. He seems to be the one stable and consistent friend I have.
I’m surprised I don’t run into Ethan at Mark’s place, and I find it unlikely he’d have something to do in the morning before we meet at eight, so I can’t help but wonder where the hell he is. He might’ve just slept later than me and I didn’t hear him, but he should’ve left around the same time I did. Did he go out last night? Did he meet up with some woman? He’s from this area. Certainly he has women in this town who he’d like to see when he visits. I scratch that thought from my mind. Certainly he has friends or maybe even family he’d like to see while he’s in town.
He’s already there when I arrive at the studio. He wears jeans and a black Vail sweatshirt with his last name on the back as he’s chatting up a tall, leggy brunette. He looks casual and collected and I realize I’ve never seen him in a hoodie. I feel overdressed in white pants (because fuck that rule about wearing white after Labor Day), an oversized gray sweater, and black boots that go all the way up to my knees.
They both look at me when I walk in. She looks disappointed I’m here to interrupt their private conversation, and he looks away too quickly for me to gauge his feelings.
I walk over to them, and the brunette introduces herself. “Nice to meet you, Maci. I’m Annaliese, the bookings manager here.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“We have a busy morning, but I’ve cleared a room so you two can do what you need to do before the studio opens for you.” We start walking toward a hallway filled with doors on either side. “We’ve got you blocked for two hours and I need the space back when you’re done for another appointment.” She stops in front of a door and looks nervously at Ethan, like she doesn’t want to piss off a guy who’s incredibly influential in this community.
“We’ll be out earlier than that,” he says without looking at me, and I know it’s because he doesn’t want to spend a second longer with me than necessary.
She nods and shoots him a smile. “Let me know if I can get you anything.” Her voice is laden with hidden meaning, and it takes everything inside me not to roll my eyes.
“Will do.” He gives her that smile that makes me want to rip off my panties and I want to kill him for using it on someone else. He walks into the room first and I follow meekly behind. The room is bare bones—just four chairs surrounding a work table. The artwork hung on the walls is of albums presumably recorded in this very studio alongside photographs of the artists at work. It’s simplistic and a little inspirational to a musician.
The door swings shut automatically behind us, nearly pushing me further into the room and closer to him. My stomach twists with nerves to be in this tiny room with a man who doesn’t want to be here with me.
He exhales a frustrated breath, and I suddenly feel like I need to sit, so I walk around him and plop into one of the chairs, firmly putting the ball in his court—he has to decide if he wants to sit next to me or across from me. I’m reading too much into it when he chooses the seat beside me. It’s easier to work this way, obviously, but I take it as a good sign. A step in the right direction.
I pull a sheet of paper from my purse with our lyrics. Lots of musicians write on devices now, and I do in a pinch, too, but I need to see it spelled out on paper in front of me. Ethan pulls out his phone.
“I tweaked a line in the refrain last night,” he says.
“You did?” I ask. I almost slip into asking when he did that since he wasn’t around this morning and I heard him on the phone last night, but I hold back.
He nods and points to the paper in front of me. We both look at the refrain:
Never thought love would find us
But the invisible thread forever binds us
We’re two unlucky hearts impure
With only one another as the cure.
“What did you tweak?” I ask. It’s perfect to me.
“I want to change one another to each other. It drops a syllable and works better in the melody we drafted.”
I hum quickly through the first three lines of the refrain and then sing the final line in time. I nod. “I like that better.”
“And beyond the dropped syllable,” he says, “the meaning of ‘one another’ grammatically could apply to multiple people, where the meaning of ‘each other’ is distinct to two people.”
I look over at him in surprise, but his eyes don’t meet mine. I can no longer distinguish whether the song is based on our story or if it is our story. I tend to think the latter, but his actions and the way he’s completely ignored my existence for three weeks don’t confirm that.
I read through the lyrics one more time, this time with the minor tweak he made.
The Invisible Thread
(Ethan)
When I lost her, I lost myself
Bottled up my feelings, stuck ‘em on a shelf
They sit silent and vile in a glass jar
Taunting me to expose the scar
(Maci)
You lost me when I ran from you
I overheard your cruel words
They broke me down, stripped me bare
Didn’t think you’d even care
(Refrain Together)
Never thought love would find us
But the invisible thread forever binds us
We’re two unlucky hearts impure
With only each other as the cure
(Ethan)
I can’t seem to stay away
This isn’t just a game to play
I might’ve lost you once before
But it won’t happen anymore
(Maci)
I’m glad I finally told the truth
You hurt me when I was just a youth
I thought it was my turn to cut you back
Yet once again I’m under attack
(Refrain Together)
Never thought love would find us
But the invisible thread forever binds us
We’re two unlucky hearts impure
With only each other as the cure
A bout of nausea washes over me as I finish reading, not necessarily unusual given my current condition, but I do my best to ignore it. I open my purse and grab the Sierra Mist I had Griff pick up this morning. When I unscrew the cap, it bubbles over and a few drops land on my paper. Ethan sighs like it’s the worst thing that’ll happen to him today.
“You wanna just fight this out?” I finally ask after a long stretch of silence drags between us. “Because this is fucking ridiculous, Ethan.”
He closes his eyes tightly like he’s in pain, and then he grits out, “No, I don’t.” He stands up and paces the small room like a caged tiger, and I’m not quite sure what beast I’ve awakened—but at least he’s talking to me. “I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be in this room with you, I don’t want to record this song. I don’t want to talk to you, don’t want to face you.�
� He runs both his hands through his hair and grabs onto the ends for a few beats. When he lets go, his hair sticks up at odd angles, perfect and savage and beautiful.
“I just want to exist in the fury,” he says, his voice softening for a beat. It gets louder again. “I want to wallow in the anger. I want to hold onto it and just be mad because you have no idea what the fuck you did to me. I trusted you. I was so fucking ready to hand myself over to you, and you have no idea the extent you damaged me. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: you have the power to break people. You wielded that power and crushed me into shards of myself that will never fuse back together again.”
I stare silently at him. I can’t figure out what to say to him, how to respond to that, but there’s more. The nausea in my stomach has turned suddenly unbearable, and just when I think I might vomit, it shifts into a sharp pain. The pain is so acute I think I might pass out from it. Blackness dots the top of my periphery, but I won’t give into it.
I double over at the pain in my stomach, his words still echoing in my head as the one fear that trumps losing him takes over.
The baby.
The baby. I don’t know what’s happening to the baby, but stomach pain can’t be a good sign.
I’m suddenly terrified. I’m so scared I think I might faint. I don’t know how to handle this level of fear, the possibility of losing something that has become so important to me in such a short time.
“The baby.” I say the words, I think, or I whisper them or scream them, I’m not sure. All I know is I’m terrified. I can’t lose somebody I’ve never met but already intensely love in a way I never knew existed.
He’s by my side in a flash, kneeling on the floor with his arm around me, but I don’t even notice he’s right here holding me because all I can think about is whether the baby is okay.
