Page 47 of Songbird
Rosie lifts her head with sharp understanding. “The same one who owned the security firm that hired you for me?”
“That’s right,” I confirm, and the story falls into the space between us like it’s been waiting for its moment to be free. “He was discharged from service years before I was, but we stayed in touch. He never tried to hide the fact he got out for mental health reasons. Jack was good like that, or so I thought. Always upfront about what it took to stay grounded and balanced. Purpose, he’d say. A reason to exist. I thought things were getting better for him in civilian life. He moved to the East Coast to be closer to his parents. He built a successful business from nothing. When he needed more, he found Dakota at a local rescue shelter. He never told me that it wasn’t enough.”
“Oh, Finn.” Rosie snuggles closer, and her warm lips pressed against my collarbone help me stay in the light when my thoughts try to pull me into the darkness. “I’m so sorry.”
“He died not long after New Orleans,” I murmur. Regret surges alongside the memories before receding to its baseline again. “I was on my way back to see him after I left you, but it was too late.”
Rosie slides her arms around my body and hugs me tightly. It helps.
“So, I came home,” I finish.
“With Dakota,” Rosie adds, not quite a question.
“Yep,” I agree. “And that Baby Taylor you’re so fond of.”
Rosie raises her chin, eyes wide with understanding. “Jack gave you that guitar? He knew about your music?”
“Yeah. We talked about it sometimes when we wondered what our lives were going to look like outside the SEALs. What would we do? How would we fill our time? What would our reason for living be if we weren’t serving anymore?”
“And Jack thought your purpose was music?”
I drop my voice. “I don’t know.”
“You’re such a riddle,” she muses. “So strong and tough on the outside. You’ve been to war and seen awful things.”
“Done awful things,” I add at a volume barely above a whisper.
Rosie brushes the hair from my forehead with a tender touch. “You’re a good man, Finn, and an artist. Inside, where it matters, you’re softness and beauty and light.”
I snort at how unlikely it is that I was ever put on this earth to make art. My contribution to that world, if you could even call it that, is too small. A single grain of sand on an endless beach, and for the kind of purpose I need to feel good about myself, I’ll have to leave more in the world than a speck of sand.
“What?” Rosie pulls back, and I can tell she’s a little hurt. “You think music isn’t meaningful?”
“No! God, no. I think music is magic, but I’m not magic, Songbird.” I gesture at the guitar. “This music is just for me. It’s not a legacy. It’s not going to save anybody.”
Her brow creases and I can tell she wants to argue, so I cover her mouth with a kiss to stop it before it starts. I don’t want to waste time wondering if it’s possible to have what she has—something in my life to be passionate about and throw myself into with everything I have. Something that will make a difference and give me what I need most. Something to live for.
sixteen
Rosie
Ilosemyselfforanother two days. With a guitar in my hands, Dakota at my feet, and what feels like a bottomless well of inspiration to draw from, lyrics and melodies pour out of me, coalescing into songs that feel complete even without a studio or production team around me. Perhaps because I don’t have those things. The music is raw and real in a way it hasn’t been in years. Not since before I was signed to a label and the world was watching to see what I’d do next.
Kind of like the way I’m watching Finn right now.
He’s at the dining table again and frowning in the glow of his computer screen. I’m outside on the porch swing, writing and playing with one eye on the window. In a moment, he’ll stand and start to pace. I can almost count down the seconds until he gets to his feet. Five, four, three, two…
And there he goes. Back and forth with a look of contemplation as he wears a path in the hardwood floors. My heart breaks for him. After he played for me and he shared more of himself than I ever thought he would, I was inspired to write, and I think he was too. The only difference is, I gave into it.Finn’s fighting it. I can understand why even if I don’t agree with it.
This man was born to make music, but that’s a calling he has to answer for himself. He has to want it badly enough to do the work required to mold it into his own vision. He can’t fight it, and he can’t force it to be something it’s not, which is ironic, because I’m starting to wonder how long he’s been doing the opposite. Pushing himself to be hard, closed off, and straight-talking when in reality he’s a composition of color, compassion, and complexities. And why?Whywould he fight that so hard? Why won’t he embrace it? Life isn’t lived in black and white. The real stuff—the good and the bad—happens in the spaces between, but Finn seems determined to ignore it all in favor of a monotone middle ground.
I dip my head again and watch my fingers dance across the guitar strings. Two days and two songs… almost. The first came together quickly, a track that relives the high of a first kiss, a first touch, the first time you sink into the skin of a man and reemerge more of a woman, not less. The second is richer, more complex and layered. A meditation on intimacy in all its forms. Physical. Emotional. Spiritual. The first chord I played gave me goose bumps, but I can’t complete it. It already feels special in a way that’s going to change my career, but something is missing, and I don’t know what.
I’m staring into the blue distance, humming to experiment with the melody, when Finn clears his throat loud enough to make me jump.
“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s my fault,” I reply as he scratches Dakota’s head and sits on the other end of the porch swing. “I was lost in thought.”
