Rifts and Refrains

by Devney Perry

  Mine was anything but simple.

  And I couldn’t stay.

  I’d waited until he’d fallen asleep, until the rise and fall of his chest had become slow and deep, then I’d swiped up my clothes and snuck out, dressing in his living room as I’d waited for an Uber to take me home.

  How would I face him today? How would I sing beside him?

  “Quinn?”

  “Oh, sorry, Mom.” I hadn’t answered her question. “Yes, I think we’re set.”

  “What are you singing?”

  “‘Torchlight.’ It’s one of the band’s songs.” I had no idea if my mother listened to my music.

  We sat in silence, none of us having anything happy to say on a day like this, until Dad stood from the table and took his empty glass to the sink.

  Mom cast his back a sorrowful look as he walked out of the kitchen and headed down the hall toward his office. She stood, ready to follow. “We’re going to leave in about an hour.”

  “Okay.” I nodded, then I was alone.

  When I got home to Seattle, I wanted to be alone. I wanted days spent by myself in my music room, interacting with others only when I needed to order takeout.

  But not today. Today, I didn’t want to be alone, where the silence was punishing and the solitude miserable.

  I’d lost my grandmother. I’d missed the chance to say goodbye.

  I didn’t like myself today. I didn’t want to be alone with me.

  The ache in my heart forced me up from the chair and my heels clicked furiously as I rushed for the front door. “Mom,” I called through the house. “I’m going to go to the church early and practice.”

  “Oh. Okay,” she called back from Dad’s office.

  My walk to the church was brisk, the air having not yet warmed from the rising sun. I shivered and wrapped my arms around my waist as goose bumps broke across my forearms and calves.

  Even though the walk was short, my feet ached by the time I made it to the church. When I stepped inside the door, the smell of coffee and sugar cookies wafted from the reception area. The lights were on in the sanctuary.

  I poked my head in, seeing two women bustling around the stage, shifting flower arrangements and photos.

  “I know Bradley wanted people to be able to walk up and look at pictures, but I’m afraid we’re going to need the front row open for seating,” one of the women said.

  “I think so too,” the other said. “Even with the folding chairs, this is going to be packed. Remind me to crank up the air.”

  One of the women glanced over her shoulder and spotted me. She dropped her chin, peering at me over a pair of clear-framed glasses. “I’m sorry, dear. We aren’t quite ready yet. The service doesn’t start until ten.”

  “Oh, I’m—”

  “Quinn.” The other woman, who’d had her back to me, turned and I recognized her instantly. Ugh.

  “Hi, Susan.” I waved to the church’s office coordinator and forced a polite smile. She’d been here nearly as long as Dad, though her hair had grayed twice as much since I’d seen her last. It was nearly white, a sharp contrast to her black pantsuit.

  “This is Bradley’s other daughter.” Susan sent her friend a look, who turned away, muttering, “Oh.”

  Nice. This damn church.

  It wasn’t the building or the messages Dad preached that I hated so much. It was the people like Susan who felt justified to judge. It wasn’t the entire congregation. Most who’d gone here were kind and warm and caring.

  But Susan was everything wrong with this place. She had this idea in her head of how people should act. Specifically, how a pastor’s daughter should act.

  Fucking Susan. Good to see she hadn’t changed.

  I marched down the aisle, not caring when she gave me a scowl. This was my grandmother’s funeral. This was about my family today, and she could stuff it.

  Stepping on stage, I walked to the piano and hefted the pot of lilies and roses off the top.

  “Those are for the piano.” Susan huffed, her gaze zeroing in on my nose ring.

  “I’m not playing with the lid down,” I barked and moved the flowers to the open space at the base of Dad’s pulpit.

  She took a step, ready to snatch them and put them back, but I leveled my gaze and she inched away.

  Bitch.

  I walked to the piano and sat down, closing my eyes and pretending the women weren’t there. My fingers found the keys and I played, song after song, loud and angry. Grief, rage, pain—every emotion was poured into the music until I finally caught my breath and looked up to see the room was empty.

  I’d scared them away.

  Ironically, I used to like Susan. She’d always kept Werther’s Originals in a glass dish on her desk, and she’d let me have one after piano lessons or on the days when I’d be here with Dad. Then I got older, I became my own person, and she didn’t like that person. I didn’t fit into her designated hole. I’d worn tight jeans with holes in the knees and my Doc Martens unlaced.

  Dad hadn’t been the only one who’d disapproved of my church apparel.

  The last time I remembered getting one of her hard candies had been before my thirteenth birthday. I was going to sneak in later and toss that bowl in the trash.

  No matter how poorly she treated me, Dad had never reprimanded her. He always chose the congregation. Always.

  Over his daughter.

  Dad didn’t want conflict. He’d wanted me to put on a smile and stay quiet. To keep my opinions, my dreams bottled up.

  Quinn wants to be a rock star.

  Great. How cute. The problem was that dream didn’t wither away. I didn’t grow out of it.

  I chased it with abandon.

  “I need to get out of here,” I muttered to myself, standing from the piano.

  The row of photographs in front of the stage beckoned and I walked closer to take them in. The closest was a framed picture of Nan kneeling in her flower garden. She smiled at a rose bush, a pair of clippers in her hand. Who would take care of those roses now that she was gone?

  The next picture was of her and my grandfather at their fortieth wedding anniversary party. It was on an easel beside their wedding photo.

  My eyes blurred when I took in the next. It was a picture of Nan and me. We were both wearing headphones, and my tongue was sticking out. My eyes were shut, and my hands were making the rock and roll sign. Nan was smiling at me, her face frozen in laughter.

  I had no idea someone had taken a picture that day when we’d been at Nan’s house goofing around. It had to have been Graham. I was seventeen in the picture, and those days Graham and I had been inseparable.

  My hand covered my heart, rubbing at my sternum, physically trying to push the pain away, as the tears began to fall.

  She was gone.

  Nan was gone.

  And I hadn’t been here to say goodbye.

  The door opened behind me and a whoosh of air ran through the church. I didn’t turn to see who’d come in. I didn’t want anyone to see my tears, so I stumbled away from the picture. My spiked heel caught on the carpet and I stumbled but managed to keep from falling. When I had my balance, I ran from the sanctuary, disappearing through the side door that would take me to the basement.

  The bathroom downstairs was a good place to cry. I’d done it before. So I locked myself inside and let the tears fall into a tuft of toilet paper, hoping my waterproof mascara would hold up for a few more hours.

  Footsteps and muffled voices echoed above my head. I took a deep breath, sucked in the emotions, and approached the mirror to assess the damage. My eyes were red-rimmed and my nose was puffy. My lips were pale and my cheeks splotchy.

  “Nice,” I muttered, drying my eyes for a final time and sniffling.

  The noise above continued as people filed into the church, but I loitered in the bathroom, not wanting to hear condolences or pretend like this wasn’t the hardest thing I’d ever done.

  But as the minutes ticked on and ten o’c
lock approached, I knew I couldn’t hide for much longer. I tossed the damp tissues away and washed my hands. Twice. Doing everything possible to avoid going upstairs and saying goodbye.

  How could Dad deliver a message today? How would he be able to stand?

  How was I going to sing?

  The noise from above began to dim as people were likely seated and waiting. I gulped, forced my feet to the door, and swung it open.

  A pair of golden-brown eyes were waiting on the other side.

  “Hey,” Graham said, leaning against the wall across from the bathroom. “Thought I’d find you down here.”

  “I just needed a minute.” Or twenty. “You look nice.”

  His eyes swept me head to toe. “Same to you.”

  Graham was wearing a charcoal suit, the white shirt underneath starched stiff. His hands were in his pockets making his shoulders look impossibly broad in his suit coat. He looked capable, like he’d hold the weight of today on his back without any trouble.

  I envied his strength. Maybe I should have stolen some before sneaking out of his bed last night.

  “Um. About last night, I—”

  He lifted a hand. “We don’t need to talk about it. Not today.”

  “Okay.” Not today, but what he really meant was not ever.

  “You gonna make it today?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  “I’ve been thinking about it.” He pushed off the wall. “About the song.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think you should sing it alone.”

  Alone? My jaw dropped. “What? No. That’s not what Nan wanted.”

  “She wanted you here, Quinn. Not to sing with me, just to sing. I think she thought it would be easier if we did it together, but you and I both know she would have loved it to be only you.”

  Was this happening? Was he really doing this to me? Now?

  “I-I don’t . . . but she asked for us to sing together.”

  “And I’m saying no. You should sing alone.”

  This was because of last night. Because he’d asked me to stay—last night, nine years ago—and I’d left. He was punishing me.

  Fuck him for abandoning me today.

  “Fine.” I marched past him and down the hallway.

  His footsteps followed, but the furious blood rushing in my ears drowned out the noise.

  How dare he do this? How dare he switch it up at the last minute? Why wouldn’t he have just said he didn’t want to sing in the first place? Why practice and go through this entire week only to back out at the eleventh hour?

  Was I really so horrible to sit beside for three fucking minutes?

  He hadn’t seemed to mind being inside me for an hour last night, but he couldn’t give me three minutes.

  My hands were balled into fists at my sides, my jaw locked tight as I walked upstairs. I was livid with Graham, ready to clutch that fury close so it could propel me through the day, but as I stormed into the sanctuary and spotted two familiar faces hovering above the picture of me and Nan, my anger evaporated.

  “What are you doing here?” My eyes flooded.

  Jonas’s brown hair was tied back neatly, his lean body covered in an Italian black suit. Ethan’s doing, no doubt, who stood at his side with his hand outstretched for mine.

  “Thought you might need a friend.” Jonas put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close.

  There was no stopping the tears as they fell onto his suit.

  Ethan’s thumb rubbed the back of my hand, and when I pulled my shit together and looked up, his kind smile was waiting. He looked handsome in his dove-gray suit, the light color creating a beautiful contrast to his dark skin. “We love you.”

  “You good?” Jonas asked as I stepped away and wiped my cheeks dry.

  “No. But I’m glad you guys are here.”

  “Come on.” Ethan jerked his chin to the pews. “Show us where to sit.”

  “Okay.” I let go of Ethan’s hand and led them to the sections reserved for family. Jonas and Ethan were my family too, and today I wanted to sit between them.

  I could feel Graham’s gaze on my shoulders as we sat in the row in front of his. I refused to turn and look at his face, but I did risk a glance at Colin, whose mouth was hanging open as he gaped at Jonas.

  The room was quiet except for hushed whispers. We sat in silence and I clutched Jonas’s hand, squeezing it tight as I sucked in a few deep breaths to get myself under control. Then at ten o’clock on the dot, Dad emerged from a door that led to his office and began the service.

  With glistening eyes, he spoke with love and adoration for his mother. He read the obituary that she herself had written, one that made the room chuckle because it was so . . . Nan.

  Then after one prayer, Dad found me in the crowd and nodded.

  I walked to the stage, my shoulders pinned and my fingers trembling. When Graham didn’t stand, Dad looked between the two of us, but just gave him a slight head shake as I sat at the piano.

  For Nan.

  This was for Nan.

  I could do this for Nan.

  Except I can’t do this.

  I forced my fingers to the cold keys. I swallowed the burn in my throat.

  I could do this. I would do this.

  No tears. I swallowed again. No tears.

  Then I made the mistake of looking into the crowd. Mom’s chin was quivering. Walker’s eyes were red. Brooklyn was crying.

  And Colin . . . my heart cracked. Colin’s shoulders were shaking as he cried, his face buried in his dad’s chest.

  My throat was on fire and my hands were shaking. What was I doing up here? I couldn’t sing. How could Graham send me up here to do this alone? How could he humiliate me like this? He should be sitting at my side, damn it. He should be here to play when I couldn’t. To sing when I couldn’t breathe.

  If he was up here . . .

  If he was up here, I wouldn’t sing.

  He knew it. He knew I’d lean on him. That’s why he sent me up here alone.

  My eyes tracked across the faces staring, waiting for me to play, and I found his.

  The world disappeared. The pews emptied and the pain faded.

  He hadn’t sent me up here alone. He’d known the only way for me to sing, for me to honor Nan’s wish, was if I could look into the crowd and see his face.

  My fingers pressed into the keys and I filled my lungs, the first note coming out with a rasp. Nan would have liked the rasp. She would have liked the softer notes that followed.

  The notes I sang to Graham.

  The notes I sang for Nan.

  Chapter Twelve

  Graham

  “That was the first funeral I’ve ever been to with Christmas carols.” Jonas chuckled from the seat behind mine.

  “Very original,” Ethan said. “Now I know where you get your love of carols from.”

  “Yeah.” Quinn gave a soft laugh.

  I was eavesdropping.

  Quinn, Jonas and a man I heard her call Ethan, her tour manager, were sitting at the table behind mine.

  The healthy thing to do would be stand and find another spot for Colin and me to sit, but I couldn’t seem to stop listening.

  “How you doing?” Jonas asked.

  “I’m okay,” Quinn murmured. “It was a nice service, wasn’t it?”

  “You stole the show.” Ethan voiced my own thoughts.

  Bradley had spoken nice words for his mother and brought a few people to tears, but Quinn’s singing—she’d hit everyone in the heart.

  That velvet voice held an edge today, like she’d been singing through the tears and heartache. And through it, she’d looked at me.

  Maybe I should have explained myself better when I’d found her in the downstairs bathroom. Maybe she wouldn’t have been so pissed. But I knew she wouldn’t have gone through with it had I been beside her at the piano. She would have let me carry the song.

  And she would have regretted it.

  Quinn
didn’t like goodbyes, but she’d managed to say one with that song today.

  That was why Nan had asked her to do it, right? Because Nan knew Quinn would feel guilty for not returning to Bozeman. And Nan hadn’t wanted that for her girl.

  So I’d forced her to sing alone.

  Just so she’d sing.

  Quinn had held my gaze until about three-quarters of the way through “Torchlight” when her eyes had drifted shut and her voice had peaked. She’d filled the empty corners of the hall, wrapping herself around every person, cloaking them with the music.

  Nan would have loved it.

  It had been perfect.

  “That version of ‘Torchlight’ was . . . that was incredible, Quinn,” Jonas said.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’ve never mentioned singing something for an album. Why?”

  Interesting. So they hadn’t shoved her aside, forcing her out of the spotlight. She’d kept her talent a secret from everyone, even her best friends.

  “You’re the singer,” Quinn said. “Not me. I’ll stick to the instruments.”

  “If you ever change your mind, a vocal from you on an album would be badass. Think about it.”

  I didn’t need to see her face to know she gave him some uncommitted gesture, blowing off the suggestion. “Speaking of albums, any update on Harvey?”

  “He’s still thinking about a visit, but I’ve managed to stall him for a couple of weeks. Has he been texting?”

  “Every. Day.”

  Her voice sounded stressed and irritated. She hadn’t let on that she was dealing with pressure from her producer. Though why would she? We weren’t friends. Quinn and I didn’t talk. We fought.

  And last night, we’d fucked.

  “Whatever,” Jonas mumbled. “We’re not worrying about it today. The album will get done.”

  “How’s your stuff coming?” she asked.

  “I’ve got about five songs roughed out and they’re in pretty good shape actually, so he’s happy about that. Though he says they’re a little on the fluffy side. He wants some edgier stuff to add in, balance it out. But . . .”

  “You’re not in an edgy place,” Quinn said.

  “Nope. With Kira and Vivi and the bab—uh, house in Maine, things are good.”