Blind Melody: Second Chance Romance (Muse & Music Book 3)

by J. R. Rogue

  “You built them for yourself. You’re not keeping anyone out. You’re keepin’ yourself in. The real you. In there.” He turns, taps my chest twice.

  I grab his hand before it can leave. I press it to my heart.

  I think if I had a best friend again, it would be Hunter Hart. Because he sees my heart, in all of its blackness, and he sings to it. Even when he doesn’t have a guitar in his hands. “I like you. You know.”

  “I know,” he says, pulling me to him, hugging me.

  “Even when you piss me the fuck off,” I mumble into his chest.

  “That’s every day, so I would hope you like me every day.”

  “Do you like me every day?” I ask, remembering every sharp mood I subjected him to, every rejection.

  “Yes. Even the days you didn’t talk to me. Even the days you pretended I didn’t exist.” He doesn’t sound wounded, but he has his own walls.

  “Self-preservation, Hart.”

  “Are those days over, Rosewood?” My last name falls from his mouth, and I like the way it sounds. He makes the damning name—the one I share with my father—sound beautiful.

  “Yes. We can be friends every day now.” It slips out, sometimes. We’re not merely friends.

  Friends don’t kiss. Friends don’t touch each other the way we do. But I don’t know what we are, so it feels safe. It’s another wall I’m hiding behind. His retreating form is on the other side, and I don’t want to look at it.

  “Rosewood.” His voice is so close, in my hair.

  “Yes, Hart?” I press my face closer to him, enjoying the intimacy.

  “I’m going to write you a song. About your eyes.” Hunter pulls away, looking closely at me.

  “My brown eyes?” I blink.

  “No, your sad eyes.”

  Used Heart For Sale

  Hunter

  On the top floor of the cabin is a large room, with no windows. There’s a projector up there, and no one knows it’s there except Sera and Chace, Sera’s brother, and me.

  So naturally, I tell Sonnet about it on the last day I’ll be here. None of the rooms in the cabin have TVs. When you come out here, you’re supposed to be focused on writing and socializing with others in your writing field. I can only concentrate on Sonnet and the song we’ve been trying—and failing—to write.

  I know Sonnet loves everything about Christmas, including the movies, so I grabbed a handful from the five-dollar bin at Target when we made the trip to town for her to stare at holiday décor. I want to see her light up like that again.

  I grab her hand and take her up and up, flight after flight.

  “Where are you taking me, Hunter Hart?” she asks, and I love it when she says my full name; I love it when she flirts. “Are you going to finally rid yourself of me and push me off the top balcony?”

  “Just be patient. Damn, woman,” I joke. “Close your eyes.”

  She listens, and it’s a shock. She rarely does what I ask. I like her defiance. I don’t want easy, and I don’t want ass kissers. I spend time with sponges—young, unsure sponges. It’s exhausting, and getting old.

  I walk into the room, flipping on lights while Sonnet waits in the hall. It smells a bit stale, and it’s probably been a while since anyone’s been in here. Maybe when the group and I came up here in the spring when I last mentored. I know Sera has the whole building cleaned, so perhaps the last person in here was a cleaning person.

  I reach into the hall, grabbing Sonnet’s elbow and ushering her in. “Okay, take a look.”

  She pulls her hands away, taking in the room. “Holy shit,” she says as her gaze lands on the white projection screen hanging down from the ceiling.

  I hold up the movies I’d shoved into the back of my jeans, hidden from her. “We have Christmas Vacation, Love Actually, Just Friends, The Nightmare Before Christmas—”

  She grabs the movies from my hands. “Oh my god. I was wondering why you were buying those. We get to watch one?”

  She’s jumping up and down like a little girl, and fuck, I wish I could stay. I wish I knew every version of her. All I know is the wild girl she was one night in Nashville, and this version in front of me, rebuilding herself and her life—still finding joy in the little things, like Christmas, Halloween, and books. And giving me shit.

  “Any one you want. Just tell me which one.” I’ll do my best to sit in this dark room with her and not touch her, not pull her into my lap.

  She’s so beautiful. I feel as though she has magnets beneath her skin. Every time I’m near her, I want to pull her closer to me.

  “God, I love you.” She laughs, and, damnit, I don’t flinch at the words, because I know she means as a friend. Despite our attraction, she’s set there—in this strange friendship we have. Because I have rules we haven’t argued over in a while.

  She sees the smile it brings to my face, to hear those words, and it makes her blush. I know Sonnet, and I know she’s regretting her words in that moment.

  “You know what I mean.” Her attention turns to the movies. She holds up The Nightmare Before Christmas. I know she’s obsessed with Jack and Sally. I’ve seen her Halloween costumes over the years.

  We’re closer to Halloween than Christmas, and the movie is good any damn day of the year. My girls love it, too.

  “Jack it is then.” I take it from her. “Go pick a seat. I’ll get this set up.”

  She takes a seat in the middle, wrapping a blanket around her. She always has one in her hands or over her shoulders.

  I want to savor these last moments with her. I have plans, and they all include her being next to me. The rest of the songwriters are slowly trickling out, so we can be alone soon. I’ll drive through the night if it means I can spend the entire day with her.

  I dim the lights as the movie begins, walking down the aisle to her.

  Hard To Forget

  Hunter

  My momma is a God-fearing woman. So’s my sister. So’s my aunt. So’s my ex-wife.

  Sonnet doesn’t fear God, because she doesn’t believe in Him. I didn’t debate her the first night we met, when she told me this. I’m not one to force the beliefs I grew up with on anyone. I reckon God wouldn’t want me to.

  I feel the need to question now. Just to peek inside her head.

  Sonnet is walking ahead of me. After the morning movie, we ate an early lunch then left the cabin to hike. Her hips sway in front of me, and I can hear the river ahead of us.

  How can you not feel God out here? Tennessee was made special by Him.

  I catch up to Sonnet, and when her face comes into view, she looks like she’s mumbling. “Talking to yourself?”

  “No.” She laughs, pushing me.

  “Praying?” I try.

  “Nope.”

  “Still an atheist?”

  She stops, her eyes peering through the trees. The sun is reflecting off the water. “I’m not an atheist, and I told you that the night we met. You never forget a thing, so this feels like baiting.”

  I don’t know why I ever think I can get anything past her. “That’s right. Agnostic.”

  “Is that a prerequisite for girls you date? God-loving women, at least ten years younger than you?” She smirks, but I see something in her eyes.

  “Ten is a stretch. I like ‘em five years younger.” It was always easy to tell Sonnet about the girls I spent time with before, when she was married. We fit easily into the pretense that we were just friends. That our flirting meant nothing.

  It feels strange here in the woods with her. Her finger is now bare, and my comment feels like me being a dick. She laughs, though—softly—and there’s a smirk on her face. She continues walking, and I watch her ass.

  I say a quick prayer, asking for forgiveness for the thoughts in my head and for the things I’m about to say.

  When we reach the water, I move the hair from Sonnet’s neck, placing it over her shoulder. She shivers in her leather jacket. It’s time to put my big boy pants on and get this over with
.

  “I had to find out on Twitter, of all places, Sonnet. Why didn’t you tell me you guys split up?” I finally ask her.

  “I texted you. I asked you what it was like to go through a divorce. You never texted me back with an answer. And I wasn’t talking to anyone, anyway. Not my friends. No one but my mom.”

  “I thought it was a hypothetical question. And you never went through with it before. I didn’t think you were serious. If I knew, I would have flown you out to Georgia. Got you away for a while.”

  She turns, her hair falling back. “No. You wouldn’t have. You might have asked me if I was going to be in Nashville anytime soon. But you wouldn’t have mixed me with your other life. Why didn’t you tell me you left Nashville?”

  I was ashamed. But I don’t tell her that. I was ashamed of myself for giving up on my music, but also, I was glad to be back with my daughters. They’re more important than my dreams. Dreams can wait. Do many near forty-year-olds make it in the music business? No. But I knew I’d miss soccer practice and music recitals more.

  “I wasn’t telling anyone, really,” I admit.

  “Then you understand. Even when you’re doing the right thing, it can feel like failure.” Her dream wrecked her family; I gave up mine for my family.

  “Why did you go with that name?” It’s the question I’ve always wanted to ask. The night we met, she was on the brink of publishing her debut novel. I followed her on her social media, and she followed me back on mine. Her usernames gave no mention of her last name. And when she published, I was shocked to see the last name. Sonnet Rosewood. We met at the Rosewood Bar on 2nd Street.

  To this day, I don’t know her last name. Not her maiden, not her married.

  Sonnet removes the backpack slung over her shoulder, reaching in it to grab the blanket inside. “It’s a pretty name.”

  “And yours wasn’t?”

  She sits, crossing her legs, staring out into the water. “Most writers use pen names.”

  “What inspired yours?” I never asked. All the nights we spent quizzing each other, teasing each other, flirting with each other, I never asked this.

  “You’re reaching, Hart.”

  “Most people would assume—”

  “Most people would be wrong,” she says, cutting me off. “This is what happens when people take my words and invent reasons for the way I use them.” She’s annoyed, and I’m not sure it’s at me, but she’s aiming straight.

  “Most people would assume, but not ask you to your face, right? Isn’t that what they did to you back there? Well, this is me asking. Don’t I get any credit for that?” I ask.

  She groans. “Yes.”

  “I played there for years. Then I see the name on your books. Then you write that I’m forgettable. It’s a little confusing.” I’m not angry, just searching.

  “I was married. There shouldn’t have been anything confusing about it.”

  “And yet, it was.” I called; she never answered. She texted back. She snapped back. She IG messaged back. But, she never called back. I never heard her voice unless she was posting a video of some sort to social media.

  I just wanted to hear her voice.

  I wanted to know she was still real. I wanted to talk in real-time. No delays. No time for her to figure out how to make her message perfect. No perfect answers. Just real ones.

  She waits a moment. “You’re right. It was. And it shouldn’t have been. We were friends—friends who fucked one night, so that tainted things. You weren’t the most important person in my life. My husband was. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. I know I made a lot of mistakes, but I was trying to not be completely horrible. Plus, I just couldn’t hear your voice.”

  “I wanted to hear yours.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t want to hear yours, I said I couldn’t hear yours. I had to put up…” she pulls her arm up, creates an imaginary wall in between us, “barriers. I couldn’t have you too close. It was all…just…I couldn’t let it slide.”

  “So we wouldn’t talk for months, and that would help you?”

  “Yes. It helped me,” she admits.

  “Did it help you get over me?” It’s a stretch, I know, but I’m going there.

  “Over you? What are you implying?”

  “I think you know.”

  “Yeah, I know. This is the part where you plant little seeds, and you want me to water them, to water your ego so it can grow and grow and grow. I don’t like big beasts like that. They get too hungry. Eventually, you can’t feed them anymore.”

  “I don’t need much from you to be satisfied,” I say.

  “Is that true? What have you been doing the past ten years? Why haven’t you settled down? Are you hung up on one night? I can play the arrogant game too if you want.” I know she doesn’t think I’ve been pining for her, she’s not that arrogant. If she only knew.

  I’ve missed her spark. I want to kiss her, throw her over my shoulder. Taste her.

  “I’d love for you to. Assume away. Tell me what you think I’ve been doing with our memory, darlin’,” I say.

  “Writing it into permanence,” she growls.

  “The opposite of what you did. You wrote it away as forgettable.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Of all the people who would understand why I said that, I would figure it was you.”

  “Maybe my ego couldn’t take it that day, I guess.” I sound petulant, so I shake my shoulders, hoping the insecurity will fall off.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t feed it what it wanted. I wrote what I wanted. What I felt in that moment. What I needed to feel. It’s survival, you know.”

  “I know.” I’m done pouting. I know what it’s like to write lies because they sound pretty.

  “You make me madder than anyone I know. I go from zero to pissed in two-point-five seconds. And then you make me laugh. I don’t know how you do it. Make me laugh?” she begs, and I know she can feel it—the reality of us separating tonight.

  “I’m not feeling so funny right now.” My chest hurts. I wanna write a song. One about girls with brown eyes, no more hiding her away in the blue.

  “What kind of husband were you?”

  I laugh. God, what a question. One I often avoid. But with Sonnet, I always want to spill the things I hide from the guys.

  She has a way of pulling everything out of me.

  Queen Of My Double Wide Trailer

  Hunter

  I wasn’t the best husband. I never wanted any other woman, but I wanted out of Georgia. I wanted my songs and my girls; there wasn’t much else I needed.

  “I think I was okay. We just weren’t a good match. Ya either grow together, or ya grow apart. I reckon it was the same for you and your husband. If there’s anything I’ve learned from being married, then unmarried, it’s that you can’t dwell on it. It’ll eat ya up, and that ain’t no way to live. You gave it your all, or you didn’t, but you can’t live there. The past isn’t an open door for you to walk through. Just live in this moment here.” It’s rich coming from me. I was just begging for details about our past. But hearing her regret over being a shit wife sucks.

  “When I wanted to write, he begged for my attention. He said I was selfish. Said I was living in the future. You say I live in the past and he said that, too. Maybe I live everywhere but in the moment.” She has black fingernails, long fingers. Two freckles between the knuckles of her pointer and middle finger.

  I place my hand over hers. Friends can hold hands, right?

  I know the answer.

  “I think you should live in the moment right now. Look at that river. Look where you are. Tennessee isn’t the place for the past or future. It’s a here and now state.” I reach out for Sonnet, pull her into a hug.

  “State of mind?” she asks, her face nestled into my shirt.

  “Sure.” I hate seein’ her sad. I know I put it there, so I try to make her laugh. “Wanna know another song that reminds me of you?”

  She groans into my shi
rt. “What?”

  “Queen Of My Double Wide Trailer.”

  She pulls away, a pissed look on her face, but it beats sad. “Care to enlighten me?”

  I launch into the song, singing to her unamused expression. I end on the line about her black heart, my voice echoing in the Tennessee woods.

  “Sometimes she runs,” Sonnet recites. “Damn her black heart.”

  “You’re a runner. Even when you’re standing in place. Even when you’re right here.” I motion between us.

  “I don’t think you can run from someone you don’t belong to.”

  That fucking hurts, because I don’t believe it’s true. Not for a minute. She does belong to me. Maybe not right now, but still. The timing isn’t right yet. Maybe in a couple of years, I can take down the walls I’ve put up—hers might be down, too—and then, we can be together. Late is better than never.

  “You gonna belong to me tonight? We can be loud.” I brush the hair from her shoulder, and she brushes me off.

  “I’m not loud.”

  “That’s not even remotely true. I remember. I’ll never not remember. My neighbors probably hated me that night.”

  “You’re an idiot. I was not loud that night.” She laughs.

  “Listen, I know the night was forgettable for you, but not for me.” It stained me.

  “I’ll just add you to the casualty list. That book should come with a warning label.” She rolls her eyes, and I hope I’m not picking the scab.

  “I’m just kidding. I know about poetic license and all that.” I have to stop being a little bitch about that line. “At least that’s what I tell myself when I remember how forgettable I am.”

  Sonnet smacks me on the shoulder and I grab her hand, bringing her wrist to my mouth.

  “You gonna be loud?” she asks, smirking.

  “I’ll be whatever you want me to be. You know that.” I don’t want her to forget me after this week. I want to know I left the same impression she left on me ten years ago.