“Yeah, it’s me.” Compassion won out over disdain. He pushed the study door open, spotting his dad sitting in the wing backed leather chair next to his bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay.” His dad nodded. “Or as okay as it gets.” He cleared his throat, and Gray winced at how much fluid he could hear. “How’s the plumbing?”
“It’s slow but sure. We managed to replace about six feet today. The worst part is stopping and turning the water on each time. It takes forever to test the seals.”
“Hmmm.” His dad nodded but said nothing more.
“You need anything?” Gray asked him. “Want me to get you a drink?”
“No thank you.”
“Okay then.” Gray lingered for a moment, nonplussed by the lack of venom in his father’s voice. “I’m going to head out and play some guitar.”
“Keep it quiet. Remember the neighbors.”
“I’ve got headphones. Nobody will hear.”
His father picked up the book from the table in front of him. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you for the work you’re doing.”
Gray did a double take at his father’s words. When was the last time he thanked him for anything? It felt weird and uncomfortable, so he just nodded and went upstairs to grab his guitar.
He couldn’t remember a time he didn’t resent his old man. And though that feeling was still there, tonight it felt diluted. And he wasn’t sure what to do with that knowledge right now.
An hour later, he was sitting on the cushioned wicker chair in the summer house, the glass doors wide open to let in the cool evening air.
His headphones were around his neck as he played around with some lyrics, the only sound in his ears the constant buzz of the cicadas. He’d forgotten how loud they were around here. How they’d been the soundtrack to his teenage summer evenings, along with Nirvana, or the Foo Fighters, or whatever band he was playing on repeat that week.
Maybe somewhere a teenage kid was playing Gray’s own music on repeat. The corner of his mouth lifted at the thought.
He stood and rolled his shoulders, releasing the tightness in his muscles. He was humming a riff that had come to him when he was playing around with his guitar. He stepped outside of the summerhouse and took in the sweet, heady scents of the lilacs planted around the wooden building.
Like everything else, it was decaying. Could do with a coat of paint, new windowpanes, and the interior being refinished. But he liked the way it made him feel in there. As though he was still sixteen, permanently glued to his guitar, dreaming of being a famous musician one day.
And now he was. He should be happy. And yet…
…that sixteen-year-old kid wasn’t content with what he’d achieved. Because that achievement was supposed to bring his father’s approval. And it hadn’t. Not at all.
He hated that a part of him still yearned for it.
He quietly closed the door to the summerhouse and walked to the front of his father’s yard. From here he could see the tall spire of the First Baptist Church, and the red roofs of the shops that clustered around the town’s square. Beyond was farmland – the growing corn illuminated by the moonlight.
Apart from the hum of insects, the town was eerily quiet. He checked his watch – it was only nine-thirty, yet it felt as though everybody but him was asleep. Maybe he should head to the bar after all. Tanner was probably still there, a beer or two into a good night. He could order a whiskey, let the strong burn of alcohol take the wistful feelings away.
But instead he found himself heading toward another familiar road. One three blocks down from his own.
It took less than five minutes until he was there. He frowned as he stared at the old bungalow, wondering what the hell he should do next. And then, through the open window at the front of the house he saw her sitting down at the piano.
Madison Clark. Maddie. His ex-girlfriend’s little sister who was all grown up. He stepped away from the glow of the streetlamp and into the shadows, watching carefully as she lifted the piano lid, then flexed her fingers and rolled her shoulders, sitting up straight as her hands rested on the keys.
She started with a scale. One handed at first, then adding the other. It became more complex, her fingers moving fast as it turned from a scale into a song, the melody sweet and low as it echoed into the night air.
Maddie Clark was good; you didn’t need to be a rockstar to tell that. It was in the way the notes flowed effortlessly without a single fault, the tempo rising as she reached the crescendo, her chest rising and falling with the beat. What was it Becca had said? That Maddie had studied at Ansell.
So why the heck was she working in a small town diner for a living?
As the melody tapered off, her fingers slowing as they moved over the last few keys, Gray stepped back into the light, planning on heading back home.
But then she lifted her head and stared out of the window. Their gazes clashed and Gray could hear the beat of his pulse as it rushed through his ears. She walked to the window and pulled the gauzy curtain away so she could lean out.