Page 80 of Second Song

That means I have to end my call and turn in my seat and get honest, because I’ve been the last man alive on a bomb site, haven’t I? Doesn’t mean I fired the shell that left a brother buried. “This isn’t your fault.” Maybe his hope-filled eyes are why making another call is easy.

It’s still early. I’m not surprised Rowan doesn’t pick up. I leave a murmured message. “Of course, the minute I’m gone, you get busy saving more lambs.” I don’t know how to finish. I’m not a lyrical fucker. I settle for starting with what I know is true about him. “Pretty sure you’re strong enough to save yourself.” I end with what will always be true about me. “Just know I’ve got more rope if you need it.”

We finally reach our destination, arriving at a school nothing like Glynn Harber. For a start, its steel gates are massive, and swing open way too slowly. So slowly that I’m tempted to scale them.

I don’t know what I expect when they eventually part and Ed steers us to a huge building that could hold Glynn Harber ten times over. It isn’t to get greeted with warm handshakes from a headmaster I always pictured as shiver-inducing. This smiling man introduces himself as Rowan’s stepdad—and that’s enough of a head trip—but him holding my hand for longer, his grip somehow grateful, is another. “Rowan told me to expect a student, not an army. You’re his soldier?”

I nod.

I am.

Here’s another head trip—this headmaster clasps my shoulders. “Rowan’s told me all about you.” He doesn’t let go. “Thanks for being there for him when…”

He could finish with when I wasn’t. He chooses a different ending.

“…when he was finding his way back to me.” He clears his throat, and I thought Rowan had the market cornered on grit. This man’s got plenty. “It’s been a long, long wait, but worth it.” He clasps my shoulders tighter before letting go. “He’ll be pleased to see you.”

Rowan is.

One day, I’m going to have the time to rewind and replay this moment as well. To remember each of our footsteps echoing as we’re led through an empty school to a recording studio where Rowan’s oblivious to our entry while in a soundproof section, drumming away on a full kit.

Who knows what clues him into the fact that he isn’t all alone in a space he told me was a sanctuary but I can’t help seeing as solitary confinement. All I know is that six of us have made this drive from Cornwall, and more people than me have learned to love him lately, but I’m the one he launches himself at first.

And yeah, he could have taken the long way round his kit instead of crashing through his cymbals, and sure, he could have dropped his drumsticks instead of almost stabbing me with them, but I can take a few more war wounds for him.

At least there’s no need for rope to save him today and no room for a lamb between us. There also isn’t any guilt at giving thanks for being spared by a blast that stole a brother.

Yes, I lost someone I can’t ever replace. I’m also sure he’d approve of what I get to do when two ex-competitors share what they know with Rowan.

Ed and Pasha repeat their story, and he staggers again, but that’s okay.

I’m here to catch him.

31

ROWAN

I don’t have a name for what fills me after talking with Ed and Pasha. Or for what empties in a gush of years-old poison in the same practice room where I first locked away my feelings. I still don’t have words for what I drum out when the others leave me with only Liam left to keep watch and listen.

I’m angry, yet weak with relief at the same time.

Thankful, but furious.

I’m loud, and I should feel liberated, right? I’m also soaked through with sweat I shower off with a soldier standing guard outside my old bathroom. One who knows me well enough to ask, “Not done drumming yet, Row?”

I’m not, and it’s a blast from the past to pick up where I left off while wearing clothes I last wore as a teenager. I’m in jeans and a band T-shirt when I pick up my sticks again and get back to processing.

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it?

Like Charles promised, I’m getting physical while mentally rewiring, or starting to at least, and Liam helps with that.

My pace slows as I tune into what relays through my headphones—Liam sits in a soundproofed studio booth, turning page after page of a workbook I once avoided. I’m grateful I brought it with me when he reaches a section that helps to make sense of why I couldn’t see myself clearly for so long.

“FOG keeps people stuck in shit situations.” I guess he’s paraphrasing. “Fear, obligation, and guilt. Huh.” He’s quiet for long enough that my drumsticks find the edge of a cymbal, my agitated tings accelerating until he says, “The fear part comes from your gut. Something isn’t right. You instinctively know it but can’t pinpoint what feels off, and not being able to trust your own judgement is frightening.” He meets my gaze through the glass. “Sound familiar?”

I bang and crash some more, then stop to say, “Yes.”

He turns more pages, but I can fill in the obligation part without him paraphrasing for me. “People with power lied. Made up bullshit.” Thank fuck for Pasha’s eavesdropping. “They said I owed them. And I did what I was told because…”

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