The Heart That Breaks

by Inglath Cooper

  “Maybe I shouldn’t be here,” I say, looking over at him with the sudden realization that I am right.

  But the door opens then, and there stands Holden Ashford, smiling at us both and waving us inside. “Hey, Aaron,” he says, slapping my dad on the back.

  “Hey, Holden,” Dad says. “This is my son, Nathan.”

  “Hey, Nathan,” Holden says, sticking out his hand to shake mine. “I hear you got your dad’s skill with words.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, sir,” I say. “But that’s yet to be proved.”

  “Holden’ll do,” he says. “I’ll consider myself lucky to have two Hanson writers today instead of one. Y’all come on in.”

  A large Walker hound trots down the hallway and meets us in the foyer. He walks right up to me and nudges my leg with his nose.

  “That’s his equivalent of a handshake,” Holden says, smiling. “Say hello to Hank Junior.”

  “Hey,” I say, reaching down to rub the dog under the chin. He’s wearing a really cool brown leather collar embossed with gold guitars. His ID tag is a musical note.

  Hank Junior follows us down the hall and out the back of the house. “My wife and daughter are out this morning, so it’s just us. We’ll be working in the studio out here.”

  We walk around a marble tile pool also in the shape of a guitar to what looks like a small version of the main house. Holden opens the door. Hank Junior leads the way in, and we step into a musician’s paradise.

  Soundproofed walls. Several enormous speakers. Oversize red chairs surrounding a round table in the middle of the room.

  “I was hoping Thomas could join us today, but he and Lila are out of town for a few days.”

  “Tell him I said hello,” Dad says. “Haven’t seen them in a while. They doing good?”

  “I will and they are,” Holden says.

  “Y’all put your stuff down. We can work at the table here.”

  Dad sets his guitar case on the floor, leans over to open it up and pull out his prized Grammar guitar. He only uses it for writing and has designated it his good luck piece.

  I set mine down next to his and wait for Dad to take a seat before sitting beside him.

  “Can I get y’all some coffee?” Holden asks.

  “I’d love some,” Dad says.

  “I’m good,” I say.

  Holden disappears through a door at one end of the room, Hank Junior following along behind him, tail wagging. A minute or so passes while Dad looks at me and smiles in a way that tells me he knows I’m nervous. Which I am.

  Holden is back with the coffee, passing a mug to Dad. “Thanks,” Dad says.

  “All right,” Holden says. “Let’s get started.”

  Dad pulls his notebook from the guitar case. “Got anything you want to start with, Holden?”

  “Afraid I’m running on empty,” he says. “You got anything?”

  Dad picks out a few notes. “Just a lick I’ve been playing around with.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Holden says, taking a chair across the table from us.

  Dad plays the lick he’d played for me a couple nights ago. I see in Holden’s face that he instantly connects with it.

  “Play it again,” he says.

  Dad repeats the chords, and Holden falls in behind him. The tune is upbeat, the part of a song likely to become contagious, make people want to go out and have some fun.

  “That’s good,” Holden says, really good. “You thinking that’s the beginning of the chorus?”

  “That’s what it felt like to me.”

  Holden nods, plays it again and then adds something new. Dad picks that out. They play through it again together, and then Dad fleshes it out a little more. They go on like this for a good while. I sit watching, listening, until my fingers itch so much that I have to pick up my guitar and follow along, playing what they’ve already created.

  This continues for a couple hours until they’ve carved out a full chorus and verse. The tune is completely catchy, and all three of us are banging it out like it’s Saturday night at the Bluebird.

  We’re starting the top of the chorus again when I hear myself singing, “Too late I love you.”

  Holden looks up with a grin. “Hit that again.”

  We do, and all three of us sing the lyric, and then Holden adds, “Don’t need to think this through.”

  And then Dad chimes in, matching the words to the melody, “Even if I wanted to, pretend that it isn’t true.”

  “Too late I love you.”

  Dad and Holden both write the lyrics down, and we play the whole thing through again. Once it’s smoothed out, Dad throws out a line for the first verse.

  “Found your note on the front seat of my truck.”

  We strum through, singing it, and then Holden adds, “Said thanks it was fun, let’s not push our luck.”

  Dad plays the melody through and I throw out, “You’re blamin’ last night on weakness and temptation.”

  We play it through again, and Holden follows up with, “One too many wine spritzers and infatuation.”

  And on it goes for another two hours until the song is not only hammered out but polished to what sounds to me radio ready. We play the whole thing through one more time before Holden sets his guitar down and says, “Does this ever get any less fun?”

  Dad laughs and says, “Best job in the world.”

  “Guess you’ll be listed as a co-writer, Nathan,” Holden says, looking at me with a smile.

  “No,” I say. “That wouldn’t…”

  “You wrote the hook. And a couple other lines. Of course you’ll get credit.”

  Dad nods in agreement, and I see the pride in his eyes. I don’t know what to say. The only thing that seems right is, “Thank you. This was truly incredible.”

  “No high like it,” Holden says. “To start with a line or a lick or hook and just take off from there and end up with something you know is dang good, well, it just never gets old.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Dad agrees. “Thanks, Holden. For the opportunity to write with you. Can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine, Aaron,” Holden says, adding, “Nothing like writing with the best in the business, and it looks like Nathan here is going to be following in your footsteps.”

  “I have a feeling he’ll be making some prints of his own.”

  “I think you’re right,” he agrees.

  Hank Junior gets up from his spot next to Holden’s chair and trots over to the door, barking once as if he’s ready for us to be done.

  “Coming,” Holden says, getting up to open the door for him. Hank Junior takes off around the pool and lets himself into the house through the doggie door.

  Holden walks us through the house and out to Dad’s vehicle, shaking our hands after we put our guitars in the back. “Let’s do it again soon,” he says and Dad tells him anytime.

  It’s not until we’re a block or two away from the house that I look at Dad and say, “I can’t really think of any words significant enough to thank you for that.”

  “No need.”

  “How long would it take to get a break like that?”

  Dad glances over at me, honest when he says, “A long time.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. And you were great. Heck of a hook.”

  “Probably never would have thought of it if I had just been writing on my own. I can see why you like co-writing. It’s a kick feeding off the other writer’s energy and ideas.”

  “It is. But don’t sell yourself short, son. You’ve got talent.”

  “You think he’ll use the song on their next record?”

  “Yeah. I think he will.”

  “Cool,” I say, glancing out the window and realizing that whatever desire I’d had before this morning to be a writer and make it in country music didn’t compare to the way I feel now. It was a high, creating something you know is good. And the second thing I realize is that I can�
�t wait to tell Ann-Elizabeth all about it.

  *

  Ann-Elizabeth

  I TELL MYSELF not to expect him.

  But once I’m outside with Henry, Algebra II notebook in my lap, textbook on the ground beside us, my thoughts won’t focus on the numbers in front of me. Instead, they veer left and right without failing to center on Nathan and my reluctant expectation that he will show up again tonight.

  It’s later than the other times when his headlights flash at the end of the gravel road that turns in to the trailer park. Happiness flutters inside me, and I stop myself from squashing it. Realizing who it is, Henry doesn’t bother with his usual protective growl. The lights disappear, and I hear the sound of the Jeep door opening and closing.

  It’s impossible to make him out until he’s practically standing right in front of us. And then I see his smile, hear his low, “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I say back, unable to prevent my own smile from making itself known.

  “Guess what?” he says, dropping down beside me and reaching out to rub Henry’s neck.

  “What?”

  “I sat in on a songwriting session today with my dad and Holden Ashford. I actually got to write a line or two.”

  I hear the excitement in his voice, and I feel happy for him. “That’s amazing.”

  “It was. I swear it was like a high. Seeing a song start with a lick and hear it built note by note, word by word within a few hours.”

  “I can’t imagine,” I say. But truly, I can imagine what a thrill that would be.

  “I know this is going to sound weird because we haven’t been talking that long, but you’re the person I couldn’t wait to tell about it.”

  Something warm and undeniably compelling unfurls within me. “Really?” I ask in a barely audible voice.

  “Really,” he says, his gaze holding mine so that I can see for myself that he means it.

  Still, I don’t know what to say. Before I can utter a word though he speaks first.

  “So I have this idea,” he says.

  “What?”

  “I think we should start a band.”

  “What?” I repeat.

  “Yeah. You as lead singer. Me on guitar and writing. Matt plays the drums. We’ll have to get somebody on electric and keyboard.”

  I hold up a hand, astonished. “Wait. You’ve never even heard me sing.”

  “I don’t need to.”

  “I could be awful.”

  “You’re not though, are you?”

  I laugh a little. “That’s probably a matter of opinion.”

  “So we get out half a day tomorrow. We can get together after school at my house. I’ll ask Matt to come too, and the three of us can come up with a plan.”

  “You’re crazy,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  I glance at Henry and realize how silly it would sound to Nathan for me to say my dog is the reason I need to get home.

  He unzips the backpack he has set on the ground in front of us, pulls out a pair of metal cutters. “We’ll swing by and get him. What time does Lance get home?”

  “Six-thirty.”

  “And I’ll have you both back home before Zero ever gets here.”

  I laugh, surprising myself. “You actually are crazy.”

  “I prefer determined.”

  “I’ll give you that.”

  “So we’re good?”

  I should come up with a reason to say no. It really is insane to think that we could form a band or that Henry could come with us to the first meeting. But I love the idea of it. So much so that all I can do is nod in agreement.

  *

  HENRY AND I watch as Nathan drives off. He has a test tomorrow and hasn’t started studying for it yet. Henry’s tail thumps against the barrel. I look down at him. “I know, right? But if we’re back before Mama and Lance get home, what can it hurt?”

  I’m so excited that I don’t go to sleep until it’s nearly time for the sun to rise.

  *

  Nathan

  I STILL CAN’T believe she actually agreed. But even after pulling an all-nighter to study for a Physics test, I’m too stoked to pay attention in any of my other classes.

  Ann-Elizabeth and I meet eyes several times during Lit class, and the smile that instantly curves her lips makes me wish the day would hurry up and get to the part where the bell rings at three o’clock.

  It finally does.

  I run from the far end of the high school to the parking lot where Ann-Elizabeth has agreed to meet me. I’ve got my mom’s BMW today, and she is standing at the back by the bumper, arms wrapped tight around her back pack as if she needs something to hold onto.

  “Hey,” I say, jogging to a stop in front of her.

  “Hey.”

  “You came.”

  “I did.”

  “I was sure you would change your mind.”

  “I’m thinking that would have been a good idea.”

  “Nah. This is a better one. Come on.” I walk around and open the passenger door of the car. I take her back pack and throw it in the back seat, wait for her to climb in and then close the door.

  I get in on the driver’s side, turn to look at her for a moment.

  “What?” she asks, shaking her head and smiling a little.

  “You know that feeling you get when something you’ve wanted actually happens?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ve got that feeling. Do you?”

  She smiles a shy smile, and then nods once. “Yeah,” she says. “I do.”

  A rush of pure happiness paints a grin on my face. I turn the key to the BMW, push the button that rolls the top back. When the sky is fully exposed above us, she looks up and drops her head against the seat, smiling her incredible smile. “Awesome,” she says.

  I back out of the space, and for the first time maybe in my teenage existence, I feel true gratitude for the fact that I have things to share with Ann-Elizabeth. And I realize as I never have before that it is the sharing that makes them worth having.

  *

  Ann-Elizabeth

  WE GET TO my house in fifteen minutes of blissful driving through town and then onto county roads, the wind lifting the hair from my neck, the sun shining bright on our faces. Nathan blasts Thomas Rhett, and I have never felt so filled with the sheer joy of being alive, absorbing every beat of every song. Every minute or two, I glance at him, his good-looking face relaxed and happy, and I want to pinch myself.

  I ask him to stop at the end of the driveway so I can look to make sure Lance and Mama haven’t come home early. The dirt drive in front of our trailer is empty though, and I give him the go ahead. He pulls around to the side where Henry spots us and is an instant bounding bundle of happiness.

  We get out of the car, and Nathan goes around back to open the trunk and pull out a pair of metal cutters. I let Henry jump up and give me a hug, giving him a moment to get his wiggles out. I then drop down on my knees and wrap my arms around him to hold him still while Nathan uses the cutters to snap the padlock on Henry’s collar.

  Relief cascades over me, and I realize this and this alone could make me love Nathan Hanson.

  As soon as Henry steps free of the chain, tears well up in me and pour down my face, as if someone has turned on a faucet and all the sadness and sorrow I’ve felt since Henry was banished from inside our house refuse to be held back.

  He puts his hand on the back of my hair, and says, “Hey. What’s wrong?”

  I look up at him, smiling in spite of my tears. “Absolutely nothing. Thank you.”

  He jumps up and plants his feet on Nathan’s chest, licking his face. Nathan laughs, rubbing his head.

  “I brought a new padlock for when we come back, and next time I’ll have a key. Come on, you two,” he says. “We’ve got a band to get started.”

  *

  ALL THE WAY to Nathan’s house, I keep glancing back at Henry. He’s sitting up in the back seat, hi
s head tipping back and forth in the wind, his pink tongue hanging out in a picture of canine ecstasy. I think about all the hours he’s spent tied on that stupid chain and how incredible it must feel to be free. My mind slips toward the end of this outing and the fact that I will have to return him to it, and I can barely stand the thought of it.

  I force myself not to think about it though, focusing on the few hours in front of us where Henry and I both are living a completely different life, free and happy.

  *

  Nathan

  WHEN WE PULL into the driveway of my house, I can feel Ann-Elizabeth’s surprise.

  “Wow,” she says. “This is incredible.”

  The difference in our lives has never been more apparent or made me more uncomfortable than at this moment, but a glance at her face makes it clear that she’s not resenting me for it. Instead, she’s taking in the admittedly huge house and perfectly mowed yard as if it’s a small slice of heaven.

  “Come on,” I say, getting out of the car. “I’ll show y’all around.”

  “Is it okay if Henry comes in?” she asks, sliding out her side.

  “Of course.”

  I flip up my seat so he can jump out, which he does, his tail wagging so hard it’s a blur.

  At the front door, I use my key to let us in. “Mom?” I call out.

  “In the kitchen, honey,” she calls back.

  “Come on,” I say, waving to Ann-Elizabeth and Henry. “Let me introduce you.”

  They follow me through the foyer and down the hallway that leads to our kitchen. Henry stays close to Ann-Elizabeth, as if he’s afraid he’s doing something wrong and that he’ll be kicked out at any moment.

  The room is bright and sunny, windows on two sides of the room so that it’s almost always full of light. Mom is washing some peaches at the sink. She turns when we walk in, wiping her hands on a dish towel and smiling at Ann-Elizabeth. “Hello,” she says and then spots the dog. Her smile widens. “Well, who do we have here?”