Becky Wicks - Before He Was A Secret (Starstruck #3)

by Becky Wicks

  I force my brain to calm the hell down. We are just friends. This is stupid. My phone buzzes.

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ E-beth says, pushing it towards me on the carpet. It’s a text from Conor.

  ‘He wants to write at his house tonight,’ I tell them. Both of them raise their eyebrows. ‘The staff are doing an inventory in the store,’ I explain, ‘we can’t be there, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s all,’ Tal parrots, gathering up the tarot cards and failing to look like she’s not judging anything. ‘It’s only Saturday night at a guy’s place... that’s all.’

  ‘Hey, Jackson!’ Conor cries, meeting me at the doorway of the white, one level cottage in 12 South. ‘Sorry for the short notice.’

  ‘That’s no problem, I was at home with the girls,’ I tell him. ‘Nice place!’ And it is. Even at eight p.m in the darkness I can see the garden is a hell of a lot neater than ours. The white paint on the house and on the porch railings isn’t even peeling.

  ‘Well, it’s home for now,’ he says. He leans in to kiss my cheek. He’s wearing a red shirt, comfy black running pants. He’s barefoot. He smells nice. ‘You look pretty,’ he says. I catch his eyes running quickly over my blue sundress as he says it and I hand him my guitar case as he ushers me over the threshold. Tal’s words won’t leave my head. Everyone thought they’d announce their engagement this summer. I realize I’m on edge – not least because I’ve never been to his house before and I’ve been so busy that I didn’t even remember it was Saturday night.

  A girl with short, dark, cropped hair jumps up from the couch when we walk in. Every cell of me is singing at Conor’s hand on the small of my back as we step into the living room. ‘Lou, this is Stephanie. My song writing partner,’ he says as she offers her hand. 'Stephanie, Lou, my roommate.' Lou's wearing cut off jeans and a navy blue shirt tied at her waist. She kind of reminds me of Alyssa for a second.

  She shoots him a sideways grin. ‘Song writing partner, hey? So you’re the reason he’s been working late all week and couldn’t come to the RFM do.’

  ‘That’ll be me, nice to see you.’ I take in the feather tattoo across her hand as I shake it. ‘What’s an RFM do?’

  ‘Raw Food Movement,’ she explains. ‘I’m in nutrition. I had a dinner the other night for some wellness brand…’

  ‘They eat rabbit food and glow a lot, basically,’ Connor follows, fixing the cushions on the couch. Is it me or is he nervous?

  ‘Hilarious, as usual. OK, songbirds, I’m out of here. Help yourself to anything on the health shelf,’ Lou says to me, pointing to a stash of something on a wooden dresser, which as well as hosting a lamp and stacks of books, seems to host all kinds of bottles, jars, pills and packets with strange looking ingredients on the labels.

  ‘Lou gets given all kinds of crap,’ Connor explains, stepping through to a small kitchen and coming back with a jug of sweet tea and two glasses. ‘You not staying?’ he says to her as she heads back to the couch and scrambles around, sticking her hands down the sides of the cushions. I can already tell I like her.

  ‘Nah. I’m heading out to watch a movie, ya'll have fun,’ she says, pulling out some keys and holding them up. I don’t miss the wink she throws to Connor, or the way she nudges his shoulder unsubtly before walking past. ‘Delightful to meet you!’ she calls back before heading out to her car.

  I can’t help smiling as Conor puts the jug down on the coffee table and pours us the tea. ‘The health shelf?’ I say, taking a glass. I keep looking at his bare feet. The sight of them on the carpet seems more intimate than seeing any other part of him uncovered, like his hands, or his arms. He has nice toes.

  ‘Lou’s big into healthy lifestyles. Unfortunately, not just her own,’ he replies. ‘So. You ready to write? Oh, hey, I should give you the tour…’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I say quickly, sipping my tea. I don’t particularly want a tour. I don’t want to see his bedroom. I don’t actually want to even think about Conor’s bedroom, or anything Tal told me about today. It’s bad enough seeing his toes. I look around the living room. It’s cute and cosy. The health shelf, two beige couches and a huge TV take up most of the space and there’s a framed poster on the wall of a rock group called Cat Skills. I’ve never heard of them.

  ‘We’ll work in the music room,’ he says now, motioning me through into another room. ‘I wanted to play you something on the piano. I need your harmonies…’

  ‘The piano?’ As soon as he opens the door, the shock of it almost makes me drop my glass. I swallow and stop in my tracks. The piano is huge, and black, and shiny, right in the middle. It’s so big. Conor walks past me, running his hand over the top.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it? It’s my mom’s old one, actually.’ He pulls out the stool, lifts the lid. The room feels smaller suddenly. Three guitars are hanging on hooks on the dark red painted walls. There’s a mic stand in the corner, two stacked speakers and some recording equipment, plus a small couch. ‘Do you play?’ he asks, patting the stool next to him.

  I don’t move. My heart is thumping. I reach for my necklace. Everything’s flooding back to me; the way I begged my uncle to sell it; the way David cried when it was almost carried away. Almost. I stopped them at the last minute. It upset my brothers too much but I couldn’t look at it. I covered it up. It’s still covered.

  Conor’s fingers start to play something; a warm up I think. I grip my glass so hard I’m sure it’s about to break. I see my father in his place. Me standing there beside him, asking, pleading…

  ‘Stephanie?’

  Conor’s brown eyes are concerned now. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say quickly. ‘You know what, I don’t really want to write tonight.’ I turn around, walk back out into the corridor. He hurries after me.

  ‘Woah! Woah, Stephanie, wait!’ He catches my arm just as I reach the door. ‘What’s the matter? Is it the piano?’

  ‘I just… I have to go.’

  ‘Come on, no you don’t, you just got here.’ He’s gripping my arms now, looking down at me, searching my face. I realize I have tears in my eyes. I’m such an idiot. ‘I just wanted to play you something,’ he says.

  I’m being stupid, I know it. It’s just a stupid, dumb piano. I have to get over this thing. The heat of his hands on me as I grip my glass freezes me to the spot till he takes the drink from me, leads me back to the music room. He sits me on the couch, kneels down in front of me as I sink into the cushions. ‘You can talk to me,’ he says, putting the drink down on the floor and fixing me with a look that says I probably can. ‘Why are you crying?’

  ‘Just play,’ I reply. His close proximity isn’t helping my heart rate.

  ‘You sure?’ His big hand is on my knee over my dress and he looks concerned. He’s always so damn nice to me. I like him too much.

  ‘Just play,’ I say again, firmer now. He stands up with a mock salute and sits back at the piano. I watch the muscles flex across his back as he straightens on the stool. I’m focussing on anything and everything but the piano, even though it’s right in front of me, bringing it all back.

  ‘I had these lyrics, some of them at least, going round in my head since yesterday,’ he says. ‘I know we’ve only done up-tempo stuff till now, but I think we should add something a little slower to our set for the audition, you know? Maybe you can add to it.’

  I nod my head and he starts to play, concentrate on his voice as it floats out and strangles my heart like it always does. Like I need that right now.

  You count silver linings like they’re pennies in a jar

  Store them up and dish ‘em out when times get hard

  All your quotes of inspiration

  Read with faith as strong as steel

  Oh if I could only tell you how I feel

  ‘Cause sometimes words can’t heal baby

  Sometimes the sun don’t shine

  But what if a storm's what we need, baby

  And we shouldn't try to hide


  When the thunder and lightning

  Are striking again

  We could race for shelter, we could wish it away

  Or we could be crazy

  And dance in the rain

  Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain

  I’m dancing with you

  Let it rain

  ‘Wow,’ I breathe, scanning his eyes for a moment as he looks up from the keys. I don’t miss the references to my book, The Secret, if those words of inspiration are what he’s referring to. I can’t be sure but my cheeks are blazing hot.

  ‘What’s it about?’ I say as he scans my face. I break the connection on purpose and pull my eyes away. He pats the stool next to him. I stand up, move to his side, but I don’t sit down.

  ‘Whatever you want it to be about,’ he tells me. ‘It needs you. Another verse, harmonies, I’m thinking the bridge needs to be…’

  ‘Can we do it on the guitar?’

  He pats the space next to him again. When I don’t move he cocks his head at me. ‘Why don’t you like the piano?’

  ‘I don’t… I used to love it,’ I say after a moment as panic spirals round my heart and throat, almost choking me. I'm ridiculous, I know it, but I can't breathe.

  ‘Sit down.’ Conor moves over more on the piano stool, reaches for my arm this time and I have no choice but to sit. ‘Piano, meet Stephanie. Stephanie, meet piano.’ He grins lopsidedly, playing a random tune in D major. ‘Piano likes you!’

  I close my eyes for a moment, trying to control my heart palpitations as the memories of that day crash over me like a tsunami. ‘I just prefer the guitar,’ I stutter.

  Breathe.

  It’s just a stupid instrument.

  ‘Ah, but the piano is a different species,’ he carries on, almost in my ear. His whispers set my pulse racing harder. ‘You know, someone told me once that the white keys represent happiness, all the good stuff. The laughter, right?’ Conor runs his fingers quickly up and down the white keys, stops abruptly, looks to me. ‘And the black keys? They represent the sad times, the sorrow, the pain.’ He does the same on the black keys now, slowly, a different melancholy sound that makes me shudder involuntarily. ‘But you can’t forget,’ he says, bumping my shoulder gently, ‘they all mix up together to tell your story. You’re a little bit of everything at the end of the day. You’re a song.’

  ‘I’m a song,’ I parrot as he jumbles a tune under his hands.

  ‘Yes. You need to play me your story.’

  I stand up again, quickly. This is all ridiculous. I’m ridiculous. ‘I don’t want to play my story on that, or anything,’ I tell him, reaching for my purse.

  He stands up after me, grabs for it. ‘Because it’s harder to write a sad song about something real sometimes, than it is to write a happy one about nothing, I know,’ he says as I wrestle with him to keep my purse on my shoulder.

  ‘No you don’t know,’ I say. He’s blocking my path, stopping me from walking out the door again. I flop against the wall, focus down at my feet. ‘I’m not like you Conor, I don’t have all that… history. Not the good kind, anyway.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You can write songs about anything you want. Love, for example.’

  ‘Stephanie…’

  ‘I’ve never been in love, Conor. Not like you and Grace, anyway.’

  His face is inches from mine and I catch the darkness flicker in his brown eyes at my words. ‘That’s my past, Stephanie. Who’ve you been talking to?’

  I curse my stupid mouth. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t do this.’

  ‘Tal!’ He smacks a fist to the doorframe, not quite hard enough to make me jump but hard enough to let me know he’s pissed. Then he reaches for my chin, tilts it so I’m looking right into his eyes. ‘Who says you have to write about love?’

  My heart thumps wildly through my dress, inches from his chest. Even now that I’ve hit a nerve, every fiber of my body is screaming to tangle up in his. ‘I don’t know the first thing about love, Stephanie,’ he tells me. ‘I write about the ruins of it.’

  ‘That’s still love, Conor.’

  He frowns, lets me go. ‘Fine. But that song wasn’t about love, was it? It was about facing up to your shit and letting go. I’m letting things go, OK? I know people talk in this town but Jesus, you have to trust me. I want you of all people to trust me.’

  'I want to trust you,' I say. 'I do trust you.'

  'Then prove it.'

  The look in his eyes is sending a Catherine wheel of sparks spinning in my stomach. The magnets that seem to have applied themselves to our torsos force me to step closer to him; so close his warm breath fans my face. He reaches out a hand, brushes my hair back and his fingers linger behind my ear for a moment before his whole hand creeps to the back of my head, motions me closer, closer, closer. I can barely breathe. He’s going to kiss me.

  ‘We’re always re-writing our stories,’ he says, moving his other arm from the doorway now. The path is clear but I’m rooted to the floor, lost in his eyes. My purse slides from my shoulder all the way down my arm as he towers over me, his hand at the back of my neck. My nerves are riding rocket ships, racing through my body, filling me up, multiplying. ‘Tell me yours,’ he says.

  What?

  He’s not going to kiss me.

  ‘Your story,’ he says, dropping his hand as everything crashes inside me. ‘Tell me. The black and the white, Jackson. Why do you hate the piano?’

  8.

  Conor

  Douglas Corner Café is busy, like I thought it would be. She wanted to come out; somewhere with vodka she said, and I live three blocks away. I know being at my house was probably a little uncomfortable for her – I noticed how she didn’t want to see my bedroom.

  But we can’t exactly write at the store now that my father’s back from his business trip and besides, even having her in my house is enough to make me want to pick her up and carry her to the nearest bed and never leave. I almost kissed her back there. Almost. Every damn cell of me screamed for her.

  Coward.

  ‘Smirnoff and soda please,’ Stephanie says, sitting herself down and resting her brown, worn cowboy boots on the wooden bar stool. Her knee touches mine before she twists away from me. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she sighs, swiping at her bangs. ‘I didn’t mean to get weird on you. I just… I think I really needed a drink.’

  ‘Well, we’ve been working all week,’ I say, taking the beer as it’s handed to me. ‘You know, I think if we can finish that one song and polish up Stars, we’ll be good for the audition on Friday. We can do it on the guitar if you want, but if we mixed it up it’d be better.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she says, as the bar-back clears a gathering of glasses and a cowboy orders Jack and Gingers. The place is already filling up for open mic night. I know she’s probably processing a million things as she looks around; she’s distracted. So am I.

  ‘Did you know, Bon Jovi showed up here unannounced in ninety-eight, sat by the restrooms right there,’ I say to cut the tension between us. I point to the end of the bar. ‘Then he got up and played Living on a Prayer and Dead or Alive just for the hell of it, and said thanks for rejuvenating an old soul.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. You never know who’s going to show up here.’

  ‘That’s awesome,’ she replies, looking around her.

  ‘Yup. Garth Brooks, Blake Shelton and Alan Jackson got their start in here,’ I say next. ‘Maybe there's room for one more Jackson.’

  She smiles and I know I’m rambling. I catch her elbow. I want to kiss her, I want to know her. I want to know what’s distracting her as much as her goddam presence distracts me, every time she’s in the same room. ‘Look, Stephanie, I don’t really mean to pry into your past, but you’re a musician. How long have you been staying away from pianos?’

  She bites her lip in one corner, sticks a thin pink straw into the drink she’s just been served and stirs it around, staring into the glass as Hank Williams starts c
rooning from the jukebox. ‘They were going for my songbooks when they were killed,’ she tells her ice cubes faintly and I watch her face fall as my insides twist. ‘I begged them for the sheet music… there was only one store that had what I wanted. I made them go.’

  ‘Wait, what?’ I put a hand to hers, forcing it away from her drink. Holy shit; her parents.

  ‘I’d been learning for a year or so, I guess,’ she continues, meeting my eyes now as she turns on her stool. ‘I was getting pretty good. My father gave me the guitar when I was seven, but I loved the piano, maybe even more. I loved that thing like you do, but he told me never to forget my first love.’ She puts the other hand to her necklace. ‘That’s when he gave me this. He had the other half.’

  I reach out to the silver guitar, take it in my fingers. They brush the warm skin of her neck and I swallow the urge to kiss her all over again, take her pain away. ‘So, they were on the way to the music store when…’

  ‘Drunk driver; hit them head on. They never came back.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She sighs down at her boots. ‘Every time I saw the piano at home after that I would just remember everything. The way my dad gave me this huge hug and told me to stay home with my brothers… they were only supposed to be gone twenty minutes.’ She looks up at me. ‘I never played again.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I tell her, pulling my stool closer to hers and putting a hand on her thigh.

  She nods, staring at it, lacing her fingers through mine. ‘Everyone says that and I know God had a plan, these things happen. I came to terms with their death, Conor, as much as you can. But I couldn’t ever forgive the piano. I think it was like I… I don’t know… like I had to shift the blame somewhere I guess.’

  ‘No one and nothing is to blame for what happened, Stephanie,’ I say. ‘If you can play the piano half as well as you can play that guitar and sing, you need to face your fears and forgive that damn thing ‘cause you’re going to be a superstar. Stratospheric! You’re going to shine, shine, shiiiiiiiiine!’