“Yeah, all the best musicians do, you know. For instance… me.”
“Sure, Jem Jones.” She shakes her head. “I thought I was a weird kid, seeing colours when I listened to music, until someone told me why.”
“I guess that makes us both weird then.”
I can’t.She’s pushing at the edges of my world, another part of Ruby sneaking through and joining me.
“I’ve never met another like me before,” she says.
“Oh, I’d say we’re unique people.”
Ruby gives a small smile. “I doubt that’s the word most people use.”
We know the truth here, we’re unique, but also so similar it threatens us. If she were Dylan or Jax, I’d grab my guitar and join her in playing, write a song with her. But not Ruby. The pale-faced girl came here because she needed to escape—needed my help and protection. I’m not tangling with another broken girl.
I hand Ruby the sheet and pull her guitar off my shoulders. “Cool, well, I’ll look forward to hearing the song when you’re finished.”
The thread of connection snaps and Ruby attempts to hide her disappointment that I’m not staying to chat.
“Back to hiding?” she asks.
“What do you mean?”
She points upwards at my bedroom. “In your den.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“You’re safer there.” She gathers her pens. “Nobody can touch you.”
Of course, she understands.
In my room, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the sun streaming through the window. The sound of Ruby’s song travels upstairs, through my open bedroom door, following me.
I close my eyes and lie back on the unmade bed. Individually, the notes are the colours written on her sheet—together the song creates a rich purple that fills my mind.
Will I ever risk letting the warmth in?
Why does she have to be so much of who I am?