Page 44 of Broken Melody
Because I wouldn’t let you in, oh I couldn’t let you in?
I put my pencil down and read over the words several times. It isn’t until a few drops fall on the page that I even realize I’m crying. Swiping them off my face, I sniffle and run my hands over the words, not seeing them at all. Instead I see another time, another day. Why are memories assaulting me now? Today? Shaking myself out of it, I close my notebook, tuck it into my purse and head out so I can get to the studio. I feel better just having the words down. Something inside my chest loosened with the act.
Thirty minutes later, I finally arrive at the studio. Such a small unassuming building on the outside considering the magic that has happened over the years and even now, by various artists on the inside. In the lobby there are an untold number of photographs on the walls of staff with various recording artists. One time, I actually stopped and took a moment to consider all the people that had been here in this building before me, and it blew my mind. I don’t know what I’ve done in my life to deserve this chance, but hell, I hope I never do anything to screw it up. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall and experienced such greatness and art in person.
“Hi, Ginger,” I greet the receptionist behind the desk. She checks artists into their studios during their scheduled time. She’s one of a few that work here, all of them kind and professional.
“Hey, Sailor, good morning,” she smiles widely. “Studio nine today.”
“Thanks, I know I’m early, but I bet I’m still the last one to make it in, aren’t I?”
“No, you’re the first today.”
“Oh, wow, great! Thanks.”
When I close the door behind me I lean against it for a moment staring at the piano in the corner – one is inside each studio. My steps echo on the floor as I make my way to it, sit on the bench, and slide the cover up and over the black and white keys. Reaching into my purse, I take out my notebook and sit it on the book rest. It’s been years since I’ve sat on a piano bench, and I’ve been yearning to do so since we started practicing, but didn’t want to do so in front of the guys. Closing my eyes, I place my hands over the keys and play a chord, almost jumping as the sound reverberates around the room. I can almost imagine my mother’s hands under mine, so soft and smooth as they moved over the keys and she played me a song. It was one of my favorite things to do when I was little. It felt magical, like I was actually playing the song and not her. But my favorite, my absolute favorite, was when she would put her hands over the top of mine, tickling me as she showed me how to place my hands on the keys and taught me different notes, chords, and how to play songs. Lessons with her never garnered a complaint from me. It feels like a lifetime ago – itwasa lifetime ago. It takes everything within me not to turn my head and look over my shoulder, because I know even though I want to see her there - smiling at me, love and adoration for me shining in her eyes - that she won’t be. It never seems to be something I’ll get over – the loss of her. The loss of both of them. The pain from their loss never fades; it changes, morphs into less or more depending on the situation, but it never ever goes away.
Opening my eyes, I look at the page I opened my notebook to that contains the lyrics I wrote. Taking a deep breath, I picture in my mind the exact source of my song. I tap into the heartache and pain that resides within me, and sing the chorus. At first, they’re nothing more than words, and I stutter over them, over myself, having no idea what I’m doing, or how I want anything to sound. But after singing the words over and over again, they eventually turn into something. Adding music to the words of my heart makes them seem tangible and turns them into fluid motion. They may not be perfect or flow exactly right just yet, but they’re mine.
Feeling my emotions start to bubble up inside of me, I let my fingers fall from the piano keys and lay in my lap. The silence in the room feels deafening. Memories assault my mind and I remember the day I felt empty, broken, and lonelier than I ever thought possible. My eyes close again, as if doing so helps fight the pain of remembering the day I packed up my minimal things and left my home forever. Home - such a foreign word when the things that used to define it are no longer there. I haven’t had a home since I was thirteen years old. My space with Britt now is the closest I’ve come to it in years. But, they say home is where the heart is. If I don’t know where my heart is anymore, if I’m not even sure my heart works like it should half the time, then how can I ever be home again?
Opening my eyes, I startle when I see Maddox standing inside the door staring at me. A look of concern, sadness, apprehension, and I’m not sure what else is on his face. His eyes widen when mine find his, “I, uh, I didn’t want to interrupt,” he says.
“It’s okay. I’m sorry. Don’t mind me,” I tell him embarrassed at having been caught during such an emotional moment.
He moves to me and I quickly close my notebook before he can see what I have there, although it’s silly considering he may have heard everything anyway. I have no idea how long he’s been standing in the doorway. Without a word he moves to sit on the bench and I slide to the side giving him room. Hesitantly, he reaches a hand toward my face and brushes it with the slightest touch of his thumb against my skin. When he pulls his hand away, I notice wetness from a tear on his finger.
“What’s wrong?” he asks me, his voice quiet, his eyes on the tear frowning as if the mere sight of it offends him.
“Nothing. I’m fine,” I tell him quickly.
His jaw clenches and he looks me in the eyes for longer than comfortable. Then to my shock he brings his thumb to his mouth and kisses it. My eyes couldn’t look away from his lips if I tried. I can almost feel his lips upon my cheek instead of on his own finger, which is maybe the point. Swallowing harshly, I try to force down the feelings that well within me. It doesn’t escape my notice that the same heart I was just reflecting on, the one that always feels dormant and lost, is now beating like a drum against my chest. That seems to be happening a lot since I met Maddox Colt and I’m not sure what to make of it.
“Hey guys,” Rocco says when he walks in the room. Maddox stands from the piano bench and walks to the usual spot he takes across the room. I appreciate the action, for it allows enough of a distraction to minimize the likelihood that he will notice anything is amiss and inquire if something is wrong.
Doing my best to compose myself I discreetly wipe at my face, rise, and move easily to my usual seat, “Good morning,” I tell Rocco and attempt a smile. He doesn’t notice though, his face is buried in his phone.
Nixon and Henley aren’t far behind Rocco and to my surprise Jace walks into the room. “Sailor, hi!” he says enthusiastically and his smile is so wide and happy that I can’t help but smile at him in return.
“Hi, Jace. You’re joining us today?”
“Absolutely. I had hoped to be here before now, but things have been busy getting you guys all set for the tour. Lots of interviews and fun stuff lined up!” he says rubbing his hands together.
“Can’t wait to find out what you’ve arranged,” I tell him trying to ignore the mix of nerves and excitement I’m feeling at his words.
“Besides, I made it in time for the good stuff. I love sitting at the sound panel while they record and then getting to hear the final tracks. This is going to be great.” He walks up to me and I stand to greet him, ready to shake his hand, but he surprises me when he pulls me into a hug. “I haven’t seen you since you signed the contract, so I have to hug you and tell you congratulations and thanks for an opportunity to work with you too. I won’t let you down. I know the guys are thrilled to have you.”
I look around at them my eyes catching Maddox’s who only has eyes for Jace. He’s frowning deeply. Looking back at Jace, I shrug, “Well they do a good job faking it anyway.”
He shakes his head, “I doubt they have to fake a thing.”
“Alright, let’s rock and roll,” Rocco says and at that we all jump into our schedule for the day. We perform some vocal exercises and then sing a song to add to the warm up. Other than that, we’re ready to go. We’ve already worked out any possible questions or concerns about melody, timing, and music. We’ve got everything down. Or at least I thought. When we get to the fourth song we’re recording today, ‘Fill Me Up,’ I keep screwing up the chorus. Something isn’t feeling right. “Maybe we should take a break,” Maddox suggests.
“I don’t need a break,” I snap, my frustration at myself making me lash out. “Something about that part isn’t working for me.”
“Why don’t we run through it again? You’ll get it. You got it fine before,” Maddox encourages, but maybe I’m spoiling for a fight. Maybe I’m embarrassed that he found me earlier in such a vulnerable position. Maybe I’m just pissed because I don’t understand the way he makes me feel when I’m around him. I barely know him, and half the time he’s kind of a douche and the other half I want to jump on him and rip his clothes off. It’s all ridiculous.
“I said it isn’t working for me. Do I need to speak louder? I think we need to rework it. I’m thinking if we-”
