by Devney Perry
I stepped up on stage and sat on the bench at her side, my hip forcing hers to scoot over. She moved so far away that one leg was completely off the seat and there was a visible inch between us.
I set my keys on the music desk, beside a pair of drumsticks, and put my fingers where hers had been. “I’ll play piano.”
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“What do you want to play?” I asked.
“I was thinking ‘Amazing Grace’ or ‘How Great Thou Art.’ Nan always liked those two.”
“What?” I gaped. “No. What song of yours do you want to play?”
“I don’t think we should play one of mine. I think that will only cause problems.”
“Nan would have wanted one of yours.”
“She loved hymns too.”
“How about ‘Torchlight’?”
“I don’t think a song about sex and heartache is going to be well-received by anyone on Saturday.”
“Who cares?” I barked. “This isn’t their damn funeral.”
She winced.
“Sorry.” Fuck. I took a long breath and gentled my tone. “I think Nan would have wanted something you wrote.”
“And I think she just wanted to have us sharing this bench seat.” She wasn’t wrong.
“Well, while we’re here, we might as well sing something she loved.”
“A hymn she loved.”
“Quinn—”
“Graham, please”—she held up her hands—“I’m just trying to make it through this week.”
And then she’d be gone.
I’d gone to bat for her with Bradley for no damn reason. Quinn wasn’t going to ruffle any feathers while she was here. She wasn’t going to push her parents or confront the past. Their rift would stay as wide as ever.
“Fine.” I pounded the first chord of “Amazing Grace,” making her jump as it reverberated through the hall. The pounding didn’t stop there. It was maybe the angriest, most rushed version of the classic hymn played in history.
Damn it.
The last note faded and her eyes were glued to my hands, just like they’d been through the whole song.
I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to sit up here with Quinn and sing a song that was a farewell to a woman we’d both loved. The truth was, it didn’t matter what song we played. This wouldn’t be easy.
This time when I played the first chord, it was soft and gentle. The piano’s clear chime eased the tension from my shoulders and the frustration melted away.
Quinn’s voice joined in, hesitant at first. She closed her eyes and lifted her chin, singing the words she’d memorized long, long ago when Ruby had taught us both to play.
This was where we’d had our lessons. From kindergarten to fifth grade, Quinn and I had spent our Thursday afternoons at this keyboard with Ruby, taking turns playing the scales and songs we’d practiced separately all week.
Ruby had wanted the quiet of the sanctuary instead of teaching us at her house, and she’d loved the acoustics of this sanctuary. So we’d play, and we’d sing. The lessons and practice had never seemed like a chore, for either Quinn or me.
Then one day, Quinn began writing her own songs. She’d play them for me when her mother was out of the room, self-conscious that they were different, faster and louder, than the music Ruby had preferred.
Every song she’d written had captivated me, like the girl herself.
Quinn’s voice became more confident with each pass of the chorus. Her singing was magic, smooth and soulful with the slightest rasp when she let the emotion show. It consumed her. Did she even feel me beside her as she sang?
Quinn Montgomery had always been destined for greatness. It was in her soul and it came out through her music. Quinn’s music was this enormous, living, untamable beast that she’d unleashed upon the world. But it shined especially bright when she was singing.
So why didn’t she sing for Hush Note? The question had bothered me from their first album and had continued to plague me since. She’d settled behind the drums and seemed content in her place there. Had that been by choice? Did her bandmates even know how much of a waste it was to have her sitting in the back?
I let muscle memory take over as we reached the last part of the song. My mind was so lost in her voice that if I thought about what my fingers were supposed to be doing, they’d falter. So I listened and didn’t sing along. And when the last note was done, I stood from that bench and walked for the door.
“Graham?” she called to my back.
“That’s . . . it’s good enough for today.” I had to get the hell out of this place. I had to get the hell away from the woman who’d shattered my heart. Because if I listened to her sing once more, I’d forgive her for leaving me.
My anger, something I’d been nursing for a long time, was the only thing keeping my broken heart whole. I’d clutch it close all week and add fuel to its fire.
Quinn Montgomery had always been destined for greatness.
She’d leave again without a backward glance. She was too big for this small place. That was a fact I hadn’t realized or acknowledged as a younger man. But not this time.
This time when she left, I’d be prepared to watch her go.
Chapter Five
Quinn
One tear streaked down my cheek.
I swiped it away, but another took its place.
This church. I hated this church.
Not for what it represented, my beliefs and faith had always been my own, but for the memories.
I hated this piano. I hated that I was scared of an instrument that used to bring me so much joy, and now it was painful to touch.
How many years had I spent in this seat, side by side with Graham as we’d practiced and performed? How many laughs had we shared in this spot? This used to be my favorite place in the world. A place where I could sing and play.
Some kids dreaded piano lessons, but practicing had always been the best part of my week. Performances had been easy here when I could look into the congregation and find Nan’s bright eyes waiting and her hot-pink lips stretched in a smile.
She used to sit in the same seat every Sunday. Her space was in the middle swath of pews, second row, first seat in from the right. Who would sit there now? Maybe it would stay empty for a time, but eventually someone would take it. Someday, even in a congregation of people who love her, she’d be forgotten.
The tears streamed as the dam I’d built against the grief broke. My shoulders shook, and the immense sadness of losing my grandmother, my cheerleader, my confidant, came rushing out.
Dad was somewhere in this building. The acoustics from the hall would reverberate toward his office, and I didn’t want him to know I was breaking down. So only when my face was buried in my hands to muffle the noise did I let loose the sobs clawing at my throat.
I didn’t want his comfort, not in this. If he found me crying, he’d do his duty and offer me some sage words of wisdom. But I didn’t need a pastor today, and I’d given up a long time ago on my father.
“Shit.”
I dropped my hands and my head whirled at the deep, muttered curse, finding Graham standing beside the stage.
Yeah. Shit. I would have preferred Dad over Graham.
“What?” I barked, drying my face with angry swipes. I should have saved the crying for my bedroom tonight so no one would have caught me unaware.
“Forgot my keys.” He pointed to the music desk, where sure enough a bundle of silver and brass keys rested.
Graham stepped on stage, swiped them off the ledge and turned. The movement sent another wave of his soap and spicy scent wafting my way.
That fucking soap. Was he trying to torture me? He must have showered before coming here because the smell was fresh. In all these years, he hadn’t changed his brand of soap, and the onslaught of memories that came with it were excruciating.
Him, sitting in his truck to drive me to school each morning. Him, standing beside my locker before
second period, waiting to walk me to class. Him, coming over after football practice to study.
Graham still smelled like that boy I’d loved.
But the boy, the love, was gone.
He stepped off the stage and I held my breath, wanting him to disappear and leave me to my misery, but he paused. His shoulders twisted. He looked back. “Are you okay?”
I opened my mouth to lie, but the truth escaped. “No.”
He stood there, his body conveying his conflict, and debated whether I was worth another moment. His feet were aimed toward the door, but his shoulders were poised to stay.
Before we’d broken up, Graham would have never let me cry alone.
The sigh he let slip free sounded a lot like son of a bitch. Maybe it was history that made him stay, maybe it was obligation to a friend of his family’s, but his feet lost the battle and he came up on stage, sitting down on the bench at my side.
His arm grazed mine and our thighs touched, but neither of us spoke.
The gesture was enough.
The air in the room swirled from the vents and a soft hum drifted over our heads. Whoever had played during Sunday’s service had left a booklet of sheet music behind, and I kept my eyes fixed on the black and white.
What was there to say? It was much too late for I’m sorry. The awkwardness between us was crushing. Talking to Graham used to be so natural. We’d always been able to trust each other. To open up and share our fears and truths.
Before.
I was seconds away from making a lame excuse and bolting when my phone rang. I grabbed it off the piano and saw Nixon’s face on the screen. The photo was ages old, from one of our first tours. His face had changed since then. Since he’d discovered rock stars didn’t have a hard time getting booze or drugs or women.
“Your bandmate?” Graham gritted out the last word, his lip curled in disgust.
I silenced the call and shot him a scowl. Graham didn’t get to be rude about Nix or Jonas. “My best friend.”
Graham stiffened, maybe because that title had once belonged to him.
My phone dinged with a voicemail moments later. Knowing Nixon, it was some sort of song meant to cheer me up. Probably a dorky jingle he’d have made up on the spot. The words would rhyme and be epically cheesy.
Curiosity won out. I needed a laugh, that and the tension between Graham and me was nearly unbearable, so I opened my phone and went to the voicemail, hitting play.
* * *
Quinn, Quinn, Quinn.
Quinn, Quinn, Quinn.
I’m in Ha-wa-ii.
It’s warm outside, the beach is hot.
But not as hot as me. Hey!
Quinn, Quinn, Quinn.
Quinn, Quinn, Quinn.
Quinn Montgomery.
I’m making bad decisions. Call me back.
Then you can lecture me. Hey!
* * *
“Jingle Bells.” That bastard knew it would be stuck in my head for the rest of the day.
I giggled. “He leaves messages like that to cheer me up.”
Graham grunted, unimpressed.
Why was he still sitting here? Clearly, this wasn’t comfortable for him—for both of us. So why not leave?
He seemed to hate it when I spoke so maybe if I continued talking, it would chase him away, and he could go hate me somewhere else.
“There was one time when I was sick with the flu and I was sure that I was dying, Nixon left me a two-minute voicemail set to ‘Silent Night.’” I still had it saved on my phone. “He always picks Christmas carols for his jingles.”
“You and Nan loved your carols,” Graham said quietly, his fingers skimming over the piano keys.
“Yeah.” Nan would have loved Nixon’s messages. Like me, she would have voted in favor of any politician who would have campaigned for year-round Christmas carols.
“Does, uh, Nixon”—Graham swallowed hard at the name—“write songs for your band? Because that was . . .”
“Awful?” I laughed. “No. Sometimes he’ll contribute a line or two, but mostly Jonas writes the lyrics. Nix and I write the music.”
Graham kept his eyes forward, his frame relaxing from its rigid posture. His fingers kept trailing across the keys. Up and down. Left and right.
He had great hands. His fingers were long and his palms wide. Those hands, a man’s hands, would drive a woman wild. If it was my skin he were tracing, not the keys, I’d—
Whoa. Don’t go there. Opening the mental door to Graham, or sex with Graham, would be spectacularly reckless.
“Do you still play on Sundays?” I asked to get my mind off those hands.
“Twice a month.”
Nan had made it her mission to keep me apprised of everyone’s life here in Bozeman. She’d give me regular updates on Walker, since I only spoke to my brother every three or four months. She’d make sure I knew how Brooklyn was doing, since my sister and I rarely talked. And Nan would tell me about Mom, Dad and each of her great-grandchildren.
But the one person Nan had seldom spoken about was Graham.
She’d told me about his son, and I think she must have felt my heart break through the phone that day. Updates afterward had been purely coincidental, like when she’d told me how Walker and Graham had started a business together. Nan had been so proud of them both.
Had Graham turned a blind eye to my life, like I’d turned a deaf ear to his?
It was odd not to know him. It was hard to realize that Graham was now a stranger.
Nine years was a long time to forget someone, except I hadn’t really forgotten Graham. I remembered every word of our fight. I remembered how it had crushed me when he’d taken my father’s side. I remembered the devastation on his face when he’d dropped me at the airport and I walked away.
I had to walk away.
At eighteen, I’d known without a shred of doubt that if I didn’t get out of Bozeman, I’d stay forever. I’d stay to be smothered and miserable. A part of my soul would have died here, in this very room, with Graham at my side and my family smiling on.
I refused to apologize for chasing my dreams.
How I’d left, how I’d ended us, hadn’t been right, but I’d had to walk away.
“How did you meet?” Graham’s question caught me off guard and my gaze swung to his profile.
He had such a straight nose and long, sooty eyelashes. How many times had I traced that nose with my fingertip? How many times had I ran the pad of my thumb over those lashes? The beard on his face changed so much of his appearance, but so many features were the same. Graham’s golden eyes shifted my way, reminding me that he’d asked a question.
“Nixon and Jonas? We met at a bar.” I lowered my voice, not ashamed of this story but knowing that this was not the place where it would be widely appreciated. Because bars were not an appropriate place for a pastor’s daughter to frequent. “College was . . . different than I’d anticipated.”
I’d been offered a scholarship for the music program at the University of Washington. My high school band teacher, the one who’d given me my first pair of drumsticks, had gone there himself and he’d made it seem so exciting. College was supposed to have been my adventure.
But one month into my freshman year, I knew school wasn’t the right path for me. Only two of my classes had been within the music department. The others were for math, biology and English. I’d hated every moment, which my grades reflected.
So I quit. I forfeited my scholarship and moved off campus.
It was the best decision of my life.
“I moved out of the dorms and into this hole of an apartment. My roommates were these two other girls, sophomores I’d met through a music class. Another girl who was supposed to live with them decided to leave Seattle, so they were short on rent. I moved into the spare room and found a job as a cocktail waitress at a bar three blocks away. Jonas was already working there. Nix started a month after me.”
The three of us had bonded as the only emplo
yees in the bar under the age of twenty-one. We couldn’t mix drinks and work behind the bar, so after our shifts waiting tables, while the other staffers were unwinding with a cocktail, we’d hang out beside the stage.
“The bar was known for its music. On Friday and Saturday nights, the owners would pay to bring in a band, but Thursdays were open mic night. Jonas used to sing a lot. Covers mostly. He’d draw crowds bigger than the paid bands would, and the owners loved it because he was free entertainment.”
I would never forget those nights, working and listening to Jonas sing. He had a smooth voice but could pull off raspy and growl when it was needed to convey emotion. His range was incredible and the power in his vocals was unmistakable.
I’d only ever heard one voice that I liked better.
Graham’s.
“The three of us were working together one night, about six months after I’d quit school. It was a Wednesday, and the bar was dead. Nix was on stage, messing around on a guitar. One of the bartenders told Jonas to go sing along.”
I stood back, watching them toy with a Stone Temple Pilots song, and wondered why the hell was I watching when what they needed was a drummer.
“I took off my apron, went up on stage and joined in.” I grabbed ahold of my dream and had been hanging on with an iron fist ever since. “It grew from there. Soon we were the Friday night band. We were making music like crazy, writing all the time. The girls I was living with got annoyed by my late-night schedule, so I moved out and into Nixon’s apartment. Jonas would come over whenever we weren’t working and we’d just . . . write music. All night long.”
There’d been no expectations other than loving what we wrote. There’d been no studio timeline or pressure to top the charts. Our music had been untainted by fame.
I was still proud of everything we’d written since, but the freedom to create seemed to be slowly diminishing. There were days when I felt like we were being walled into a room, brick by brick.
