“I’m here because you’re my friend. Besides, you’re the reason I got to go to the best music school on a scholarship.”
He arched his brow. “I didn’t do … anything.”
“You made my song popular.” She waved it off. “Forget about that.” She turned and took a step away from him, and he reached out and took her hand.
“Chlo, I’m so … sorry.”
She frowned. “It’s all right. I didn’t expect you to sing right away.”
“I’m not referring to that.”
“Then what are you apologizing for?”
“For being … childish and petty. Between us … you shouldn’t have to … to be the parent.”
She laughed softly. “Chris—”
“I was so stupid. I … shouldn’t have allowed my … anger and disappointment to get be … between us. Then … after all these years, you … still had to … make the first move.”
She gave his hand a squeeze. “We were both stupid. Let’s just forget about that and move on, all right?”
He nodded. He wanted to ask her about her school, about how her life had been, but he knew he wouldn’t get much of an answer.
She would try, but he was rather sure that the answer would be a simple ‘fine’ or ‘great.’
Throughout her life, she had learned to shut her feelings within herself instead of expressing them. It was the only way she could survive her family. If she didn’t have her guard up, she might let her mother’s words get to her.
He’d heard some of the cruel things her mother said to her and to others:
“She’s nothing but a crybaby, and crybabies will never achieve anything in life.
“Look, there she is, trapped in her own world and being antisocial again.
“Oh, there she goes with the thing about colors. Her illness can be so exhausting.”
He could go on forever, so he wasn’t surprised by the damage done.
He hated it whenever she tucked her thoughts and feelings away, but it wasn’t really her choice. She wasn’t trying to be difficult or mysterious. It was simply because she’d learned to keep her feelings to herself so much that she seemed to have forgotten how to voice her inner-most feelings.
He had watched when she tried to tell him something that upset her. She would open her mouth to speak, but no voice would come out of her. She would try a couple of times, then she would give up. After that, she would close her eyes and take a deep breath to suppress her emotions instead.
It always ached his heart when she did that.
He brushed the back of his index finger down her cheek. For now, he would keep his questions to himself.
When she was ready, she would tell him, or she would pour out her thoughts in a letter and give it to him. She was always better at penning her feelings instead of speaking them, which probably explained why the songs she wrote always connected with the listeners’ hearts.
Chloe tilted her face to the side and gently slipped her hand from his as she turned away from him.
He looked down at his hand as irrational thoughts of pulling her back consumed him.
“I think you’ve lost the heart to sing. Your color is different when you talk about singing. There’s a dullness, like a sickness.”
“So I’m sick?”
“Sick of singing, maybe.” She walked on to the next room. “Why did you start drinking?”
He’d thought about that a lot, and he’d been asked that question several times at the rehabilitation center.
He had come up with several explanations to defend his fall into alcohol addiction, but there was one he never said aloud. “I was weak.”
Chloe stopped outside the next room and looked at him without a hint of judgment.
He gave her a wry smile and continued, “Alcohol was around all the time.”
After a successful album, the company always threw a party. Every time an artist hit a chart, every time someone signed a contract, every time there was any form of success or even just a hint of success, there would be a party. Not to mention all the other parties thrown by other singers; parties he was obligated to attend.
Then there were all those award shows that were all followed by after-parties.
“You didn’t used to drink.”
“It didn’t seem right to keep refusing people.”
Her head bobbed up and down slowly. “Then why did you check yourself out of rehab?”
“All they want to do is talk and … talk.”
She laughed softly. “I can understand how you’d hate that, but it works, right? People go through rehab all the time.”
He arched a brow. “So you’re a … talker now.”
“My therapist says I should talk more and learn to voice my feelings.” She paused, her gaze dropping to the ground. “It’s difficult for me, but logically, I think my therapist is right.”
“You have a therapist.”
“A long time ago. I went for several sessions before starting school,” she said. “And you’re talking to me now.”
“I don’t like to talk … with people I don’t know.”
Actually, he didn’t like to talk about it to anyone. He hadn’t even discussed what had happened with his mom or Josh.
“I hope you won’t drink again. People change when they drink, and I like you just the way you are without the alcohol.”
How was it that her words always made him feel like a superhero, even when it was about the very thing that brought his downfall?
He moved closer with the sole intent of kissing her, but he managed to rein in his impulse before he actually leaned toward her.
He stopped next to her and exhaled heavily while staring at the room. “Your bedroom.” He waved his hand to direct her attention. “It’s fully furnished, so you don’t have to stay at your mom’s place if you don’t want to. You can stay here.”
Chloe pulled in her lower lip.
“This is your house, your … bedroom.”
The house was built for her; it was always meant to be hers. Perhaps that was why he found it so difficult to even look at the house when he first came here after it was built.
With Chloe beside him, everything felt right.
She watched him for a moment, seemingly considering her words, then her lips curled into a mischievous grin. “Show me the rest of the house.”
He narrowed his eyes, but she was already out of the room.
After a tour of the house, she locked the house and dropped the key onto his palm.
“I’m not taking the house,” she said before he could open his mouth.
“Chlo—”
“But …” She smiled and continued, “When you’re successful again, I’ll accept it. Until then, you keep it.”
“Chlo—”
“I’ve made up my mind.” She grinned. “I love this place; it’s beautiful. But I refuse to take it unless you’re back on your feet again.”
“Then how about this? Stay here temporarily. I’m … sure you’ll prefer this house to your … parents’.”
“Hmm … You make a good bargain.”
“You know you want to.”
She cocked her head to the side. “Come on, let’s go back. I’m starving, and your mom promised lunch.”
Chapter Five
Chloe and Christopher got back to the house and found a reporter and cameraman waiting outside Amy’s house. The blonde reporter sprinted over in her black heels with the cameraman right behind her.
“Christopher Hunter, your neighbor, Frank Cumming, has accused you of going on a drunkard rampage. He said you’ve punched him for no apparent reason.”
Chloe cringed. This was the last thing Christopher needed. “That wasn’t what happened.”
Christopher turned to her, his head swaying left and right.
“Then tell us what happened.” The reporter jammed the microphone toward her.
Christopher stretched his arm protectively in front of her and pushed her behind him. �
��No comments.” Then he took her hand and pulled her forward, nudging her toward the house while using his body to block the reporter and cameraman from getting too close to her.
Chloe half ran into the house. Now she understood the need for the arborvitae trees. “I’m so sorry,” she said the moment Christopher closed the door behind her. “Frank’s despicable.”
“He always has been.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” He moved to the window and pulled the curtains across it.
“What are you doing?” Amy asked with a wooden spoon in one hand. “Why are the two of you looking so flustered?”
Chloe explained what happened.
“Frank.” Amy’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to have a word with his mother.”
Chloe pursed her lips, but ended up laughing anyway.
“Forget it.” Christopher rammed the side of his fist against the wall and headed upstairs, taking two steps at a time.
Chloe blinked, staring at Christopher’s back as he disappeared up the stairs, then she turned to Amy.
Amy waved it off. “Let him be.”
She’d never seen him like this before. She gave Amy a smile and went after Christopher.
Christopher laid in bed with headphones similar to hers. His eyes were closed, and his arms over his forehead.
She sat on the bed and pulled the headphones off. “What happened?”
“You saw what ha … happened.”
“What are you truly angry about? I’m sure it isn’t over Frank. He’s always been a bully, and I’ve never seen you react like this.”
“Maybe that’s because … we haven’t seen each other in eight years.”
She licked her lips and stood. He clearly didn’t want her anywhere near him, but she stopped when she felt his hand grabbing hers.
“I’m sorry … I …”
She looked back at him. “Do you think I got you into trouble with Frank and the media? I know—”
“It isn’t your fault.” He sat up on bed and ran his hand through his hair. “It’s just annoying.”
“What is?”
His chest rose steadily as he drew in a deep breath, then collapsed. “Whatever I do, it is never … good enough.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Whatever I do … the media always has something negative … to say.”
“That’s their job. Negative news sells.”
He sighed again. “I think I’m an … honest person.”
“You are,” she said. “And you’re sincere; you always try to do your best.”
“But they always have to twist … it. I hate … hearing or reading all … the nonsense about myself. Sometimes I get … so tired of being the good … guy.”
She nodded and sat next to him. “Don’t listen or read any of them. They can write whatever you want. If it isn’t true, then ignore it. You know who you are, what kind of person you are. Don’t change for people who aren’t relevant to you. I like you just the way you are.”
“What if I don’t what kind of person I am?”
She smiled. “Then you give me a call, and I’ll tell you who you are. Unless you’ve changed so much in the eight years that we’ve been apart.”
He stared right into her eyes for a moment. “You won’t want to hear about all the things … I’ve done in the past eight years, especially when I started … drinking.”
“I don’t have to. Whatever you became when you were drunk, that was the alcohol. It wasn’t you.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
Christopher finally wiped off the frown and replaced it with a smile.
“I’m really sorry about the trouble, especially when your label is considering dropping you.”
Josh thought her presence would help Christopher sing again, but her presence was bringing nothing but trouble for Christopher.
“Hey.” He tightened his grip on her hand, which was when she noticed their hands were still together. “It isn’t your fault. This … whole thing is Frank’s doing. He’s probably … trying to get his fifteen … minutes of fame.”
She nodded.
“Besides, the decision with the label is made. Nothing is going to change it.”
“Lunch?”
Chloe looked over at Amy. “Yes, please.” She didn’t want to think about what had happened anymore.
Seated at the table, Chloe jabbed her fork into a piece of sausage and smiled when strands of spaghetti came up along with it.
Amy always poked strands of dried spaghetti through each piece of sausage before boiling them together.
As kids, they’d always loved it. It seemed silly that Amy was still doing that now, but Chloe had always liked being around Amy because she never had to be the adult when she was with her.
She looked up at Christopher when she felt him staring.
“Yes, she still does this every time she cooks spaghetti.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Amy asked. “You used to love it.”
“I still do,” she said. “I think it’s cute.”
Amy walked over to her and gave her a kiss on her hair. “Girls are always so much more appreciative.” She went around the table and sat across from her. “I saw an article about you once. It said you only work with singers whom you can connect with because that’s the only way you can tailor a song for them. Is that because of your synesthesia?”
“Article about me?” She never gave any interviews. She loved writing songs because she remained behind the scenes.
“It was actually about a young singer.” Amy snapped her fingers three times in quick succession. “I can’t remember her name, but she mentioned you in the article.”
She nodded; that made more sense. “That’s true. If I don’t know the person, how am I supposed to write something that he or she can sing with her heart?”
“I thought it was because of the colors. You said everyone has a color.”
“True.” Her condition did help; the right melody always matched the color of the singer’s voice.
“Why do you only write love songs? You must’ve had many amazing relationships for you to write all those songs.”
Chloe laughed softly. “Those songs are based on the singers’ love stories, not mine.”
“Of course, of course.” Amy stuck her fork into a piece of sausage and twirled it. “So are you working on anything right now? Dating anyone?”
“Mom, let her eat … in peace.”
“I haven’t seen her for the longest time, so of course I have questions.” Amy leaned forward with a smile. “But you can tell me to stop if I’m irritating you.”
Amy’s color was similar to Josh’s.
“You’re not irritating me,” Chloe said. “And yes, I’ll be working on a song.” She hadn’t agreed to write any song for any singer, but there were a couple of songs in her file that she was ready to work on.
They continued their idle chat until all the food was gone.
Christopher glanced toward the window.
“I think I’d like to work on my song while staring out at the river.”
He immediately turned back to her, but paused for a moment before speaking. “You don’t have to do … this for me.”
“I want to.” She got up and cocked her head toward the door. “Shall we? Do you think the reporter will still be outside?”
He shrugged. “But we’ll take the car, just in case.”
When they drove out from the house, the reporter and cameraman were nowhere to be seen. They stopped by her house for less than five minutes. Since she hadn’t unpacked, she grabbed the few items she’d taken out and was ready to leave her parents’ place.
With Christopher’s help, she was all set up in her new home office in less than half an hour.
He’d gone back home so she could work in peace. She’d wanted him to stay so she could keep an eye on him, but he assured her that he was fine and left.
Christopher was the most sincere person she’d ever met. During the competition, each time before he stepped out on stage and after his performance, he’d thank the musicians and the backstage crew for their hard work. As a result, everyone worked harder for him.
When he wanted to sing her song for the finals, everyone worked to make it happen for him.
His good personality didn’t seem to have helped in the world after the competition, though, and she understood. She wasn’t a singer, but she roamed in the same industry. Often, the loudest, most arrogant and obnoxious people got noticed.
It was an industry that rewarded bad behavior.
Bad behavior was newsworthy, thereby bringing publicity. No one would be interested to read about a star going to a bookstore or heading home to have dinner with his mother.
She turned to her phone when it rang; an alarm reminding her of the appointment she had in a week.
She grabbed the phone and twirled it in her hand, hesitating.
There was nothing between her and Christopher. The kiss they shared was a remnant of their childhood crush, nothing more.
She pulled her laptop over and went to Youtube to play one of his competition performances. She propped her hand on the table, then closed her eyes and leaned against her arm.
She used to wish he was singing to her whenever he was on stage.
He wasn’t, of course, but her heart always melted whenever he sang.
That was eight years ago. There was nothing between them now.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath as she thought about what Christopher had said right before kissing her.
No. She shook her head. She had to stop thinking about the kiss.
Picking up her phone, she cleared her throat and called Jason. The call went on ringing for the longest time, and she was about to end it when he picked it up.
“Hi, Darling,” he shouted.
She cringed at the explosion of blinding sparks from the loud thumping music in the background. She kept her eyes close and concentrated on breathing in and out. She had never stepped into a club, never even liked walking near one.
Such music never failed to knock the breath right out of her, and not in a good way.
The sudden bursts of lights always made her feel as if she were caught in a fireworks. She knew none of the sparks would hurt her, but they always caused such trepidations that resulted in shortness of breath.
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