Page 115 of A Ballad of Betrayal and Beauty

I roll my eyes and place my hand on his chest. “You said you’d play me some of your music. I haven’t heard it yet.”

He grins. “I guess that’s true. How about I get us some water and when you’re ready, come out to the living room and I’ll put on the stereo.”

“Okay.” He goes to get up, but I grab his arm. “Wait.”

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

I scan his face, fingers running down his exposed neck. “I just—I want you to know that I feelsomething. . .”

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“In here,” I say, placing his hand on my heart. “I know I shouldn’t say the words . . .”

He holds his breath. Waiting to hear what I have to say. Desperate for me to say it.

“So I won’t say it. Not yet. But I do—feel them, I mean.”

He kisses me so tenderly my heart might actually burst. “I do too.”

I watch from the bed as he gets up, throws on a pair of sweatpants, then walks out the door. My muscles are sore and stiff, and for a while, I simply lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about nothing. I was tired before, but now? I’m both exhausted and wide awake, brain buzzing.

Finally, I peel myself off the sheets and try to stretch out my limbs. I grab Joel’s sleeveless shirt from the floor and pull it on over myself, then find my panties, which somehow landed on the lampshade. As I walk toward the door, I catch sight of myself in the mirror above Joel’s dresser. My hair is utterly wild. My lips are swollen, my eyes bright. I’m glowing, but disheveled, and it might be the prettiest I’ve ever felt.

I fluff my hair and smile, then head out the door and down the hallway. When I enter the living room, the gas fireplace is on and Joel is standing in front of a wall unit housing a complicated-looking stereo system.

I sidle up to him and wrap my arms around his stomach. “I thought you were going to play your guitar for me.”

He rubs his hands along my arms. “I would, but my fingers are dead tired. I promise I’ll give you the live version another time. Besides, I don’t sing or play the melody, so you should hear the full versions first.”

“Okay,” I say, and after he sets the needle on the album with a gorgeous blond girl on the front looking positively scandalous, he pulls me over onto the couch.

The music starts harsh and fast, and compared to my own old-fashioned tastes, it takes a moment to adjust—to appreciate it and let myself hear the melodies. Joel can barely sit still next to me—his fingers, which don’t look tired in the slightest, play an invisible rhythm on his thigh—and I smile softly at just how fucking cute he is. His face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning and I can’t take my eyes off him.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“I like it,” I admit. True, it’s not my preferred genre, but I can feel him shine through the music.

His head starts to bob. “Oh, I love this part, listen . . .”

There’s a complicated guitar solo that plays at breakneck speed, and I can’t help but be impressed that someone has managed to put so many notes together so seamlessly.

“James absolutely kills that riff live,” he says.

“James plays the guitar?” I ask. He’s never actually told me the names of his bandmates.

“Yeah, James on lead, Dave on drums and—” He nods, then stands abruptly as something in the music changes. “Here comes Key with the lyrics.”

The music warbles in the distance as if I’ve suddenly been plunged into an icy cold river. My body shivers, and I can’t hear anything past the ringing in my ears. Nausea rolls in my stomach, and the pleasant ache I felt throughout my body a moment ago turns every inch to agony.

“Wha—what did you just say?”

My voice is far away. I’m having an out-of-body experience. I can see myself frozen in fear on the couch as Joel plays air guitar in front of me, no idea he just said the one thing that could completely shatter me.

“Key,” he says, none the wiser. “He plays rhythm guitar and is the lead singer. Can you believe this guy started out as a do-gooder church boy from Iowa?”

Joel grabs a picture frame off the shelf above the stereo and hands it to me. There are four men. A tall blond with long hair holds a pair of drumsticks in the air above him. He stands next to a young man with long, curly black hair and dark eyes—their free arms wrapped around each other with the kind of carefree smiles that must come from doing what you love. But what stops my heart in my chest are the two boys next to them.

With his silky dark hair and million-dollar smile is Joel. But the fourth one. The final one—his eyes are more than familiar. How many times have I dreamt about his eyes, that face? How many nights have I stayed up filled with anger and regret and overthinking so many things? How much have I mourned what we had together?

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