Page 65 of The Sound of Forever
“We should record that,” Zeke says after a while.
I glance up, startled. “What? I’m not ready.”
“You’re doing it—that’s as ready as you’ll ever be,” he tells me, as a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s record it. Hear how it sounds when you play it back.”
The thought sends a ripple of unease through me. Recording feels permanent, like putting something out into the world where it can be judged, dissected, torn apart. People can see the new me. A person who feels too fragile to be exposed like that. But beneath the hesitation, there’s a flicker of curiosity—a pull to hear it, to find out if it stands on its own, separate from the chaos in my mind.
“Fine,” I say finally. “Let’s do it.”
Zeke steps over to the control panel, flipping switches and adjusting dials with practiced ease. Then he returns to where I’m sitting, setting up the mic with careful precision. He tweaks the angle, checks the levels, and leans in slightly to ensure everything is just right before giving me a quick nod.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he says.
I take a deep breath, my fingers settling on the starting position of the strings. The air feels electric, as though it’s brimming with expectation, waiting for the first note to take shape. Or maybe it’s within me—an energy thrumming just beneath the surface, ready to spill out. My eyes drift closed, the familiar patterns of the melody coursing through my thoughts. Through my soul. And then I begin to play.
The melody flows out of me, hesitant at first but finding its rhythm with each note. It’s not flawless, but it’s real. The slips, the pauses—they’re woven into the music, into who I am. And I embrace it. Every note, every pause, every imperfection, every moment it feels like the music is speaking for me. It’s not about perfection. It’s about letting myself be seen, flaws and all.
When I finish, I open my eyes to find Zeke watching me. He doesn’t say anything, just hits a button on the panel and plays it back.
Hearing it is . . . surreal. It’s mine, but it’s not. The sound is richer, fuller, the flaws more pronounced but also more human. It’s not the kind of thing I’d have played in a packed venue years ago, but it’s real. It’s me. The new me.
“What do you think?” Zeke asks. “You just need to add some lyrics.”
I’m quiet for a long moment, listening as the last note fades. “It’s a start,” I say finally.
“An awesome fucking start,” he says, leaning back with a satisfied grin. “If you want me to add drums, I can do it. I can even ask Eth to put some bass on it—whenever you’re ready.”
“Your husband will add bass?” I say, almost excited because that would make this a song.
“If you’re ready, all the Sinners will be happy to help,” he says.
And how I wish my band were like them. When things began to get too fucked up around my life, they just dropped one by one until there was just me. Keane Stone. I could do without them, but to have a close-knit group is special.
“I would be grateful if you guys can help me, when I’m ready,” I state. Now the key is knowing when I’ll be ready.
ChapterFifty-Nine
Keane
The smellof garlic and rosemary hits me the moment I walk into Julianna’s house. Rayne’s giggles float from the kitchen, and I follow the sound. It’s been a long day at the studio, but a good one.
When I step into the kitchen, Julianna is at the stove, stirring something in a large pot. Rayne is standing on a stool at the counter, carefully tearing basil leaves and dropping them into a bowl. The sight of them together, so natural, so comfortable, makes my heart ache in the best way.
“Good evening,” I greet them.
“Hey, you,” Julianna says, glancing over her shoulder with a smile. “How was your day? Were you able to record anything?”
“It was a lot better than I expected,” I say, crossing the room to kiss her cheek. “The music just flowed, like it was there all along, I just had to . . . play.”
Rayne looks up from her bowl. “Did you play your guitar?”
“I did,” I say, crouching down so we’re at eye level. “And I even recorded something. Want to hear it later?”
She nods enthusiastically, her pigtails bouncing. “Yes. Is it a happy song or a sad song?”
“A little bit of both,” I say, tapping her nose. “Kind of like life, huh?”
I stand, the thrill of what I’ve just done thrumming through me, and turn to Julianna. “I finally played it—that melody that’s been stuck in my head for weeks,” I tell her, the excitement rushing out before I can stop it. “Zeke said it sounded amazing. And recording it? God, Jules, it felt like I was piecing myself back together, one strum and one note at a time.”
