Hammers & Heartstrings: LPD Records #1

by Elle Bennett

  The look he gave me was not kind. I deserved it, though. I knew I did.

  I walked out of the venue and into the warm spring air, hoping it would calm me down. I sat down on the concrete and heard footsteps. A moment later, Joan sat down next to me.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey there, ghost girl.”

  “Sorry about that. I’ve wanted to be alone.”

  “Well, just because my brother was a jackass to you doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends,” she said.

  She clearly hadn’t heard the whole story, that I’d been the one to dump him, that it was my fault that he left. But it was time for me to leave. I’d already asked my dad, and he said he was fine with me moving back in with him for a little while. He said he was mostly excited to see Pigeon again, but he said it with a wink, so I was pretty sure he was fine with spending time with me as well.

  “Friends help friends pack and move, right?” I asked.

  “He’s not the one moving out?” she asked. “Because he’s been back in the basement for the past few weeks.”

  “Yeah, I can’t stay there anymore. He can have the place. Will you let him know? I’ll be out next week.”

  “Sure. I’ll help you out.”

  Doug helped me out by scheduling a mandatory band meeting to make sure that Andrew wouldn’t be in the apartment and I could go in and clear out my stuff. The moment I walked in, I could smell him. He’d been there. And he’d been smoking regular cigarettes again. I caught the scent in the air and closed my eyes tight. I tried my hardest not to think about him. But he was everywhere in the apartment. I could feel him everywhere.

  Joan was behind me, holding a stack of unfolded boxes in her hands.

  As I opened up my drawers and put some clothes into a freshly folded box, Joan let out a big sigh. I looked over to her and saw she had a Peristerophobia CD in her hands.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Just. This really sucks. I’m kind of pissed off at both of you right now, but I also still love you both.”

  “Um. Okay?”

  “It’s just,” she said, throwing the CD into a box, “Andrew was his usual asshole self, you were your usual bitchy self, you clashed too hard one fucking time, and suddenly it’s over? It’s ridiculous. He clearly misses you, you clearly miss him. There’s no point in packing up all this shit if you two are going to work it out. Maybe I should just stop packing, give him a call, you can both admit you were idiots, kiss, and make up? Make some beautiful music together, we can call it a day?”

  I let out a slow breath.

  “Did you really just call me a bitch? I’m really sick of people calling me that.”

  “Well, stop being a bitch, then.”

  “Gee, I’ll get right on that. Thanks,” I said.

  I pulled out another box and folded it together as I walked over to the bathroom. Time to pack up that room. I heard another crash come from the bedroom and I figured Joan was breaking my stuff while pretending to pack. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked her for help.

  She showed up at the bathroom door with a huff.

  “Look, I’ve seen Andrew go through girls before. I’ve seen him use them and kick them to the curb. He’s been shit, thinking he’s the shit. But you’re not them. He loves you. He really, truly does. He would probably give up his record contract if it meant you were happy and successful, because that means more to him than anything.”

  I let out a laugh because, well. Yeah. Right.

  “Seriously,” Joan said. “He might be pissed at you right now for some godforsaken reason, but he loves you, and you hurt him. Why did you hurt him?”

  “He hurt me first,” I said.

  A lie, and maybe a little immature. But it came out of my mouth anyway.

  “My brother’s heart is broken, and it’s your fault. He told me yesterday that he doesn’t want me talking to you anymore. I know you probably don’t want to see me either, because I probably remind you of him. I don’t want to lose you as a friend, though.”

  “I don’t want that either,” I agreed. “Andrew can go fuck himself if he doesn’t like it.”

  Yes, it hurt that she looked like him, and seeing her sucked more than I wanted it to, but I didn’t exactly have any other close friends in my life. I couldn’t let another one go at that moment. I liked having someone who could be there for me, and I could be there for her as well.

  “Are you sure you guys can’t work it out? I’ll start unpacking now.”

  “Joan. I’m positive. I can’t be with him. He can’t be with me. It is what it is.”

  We finished packing, and the last item I took out of the apartment was the keyboard Andrew had given me when we first moved in together. The piano in my dad’s basement was old, needed to be tuned, and quite frankly, had a serious danger of splinters. I would miss my keyboard if I didn’t bring it with me.

  And just because I’d given up the idea of dating a musician and being a musician didn’t mean that I couldn’t keep playing as a hobby.

  “You’re taking the piano with you?” Joan asked, a smile on her lips.

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you were horrified of that thing,” she said.

  “I don’t want to play it professionally. Doesn’t mean I can’t play on my own time. It can be a hobby, not a career. I’m fine with that,” I said.

  Joan kept smiling, even as we placed it in my car.

  “So, does this mean that you’re writing your own stuff? Can I hear it?”

  “No, of course not,” I said. Another lie out of my mouth. I’d written so many melodies without meaning to over the past few weeks.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “I’m not a songwriter. Or a singer.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s a lie.”

  It was, and I knew it. Fucking hell.

  I shook my head.

  “If you really haven’t done it, you should think about it,” she said. “Don’t waste your talent. You’re too good to let your music stay inside a small room in your heart and never reach anyone’s ears but your own.”

  I hated that she had a point.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  You brought me to my knees

  Made me give you my crown

  It looks better on you

  Than I ever could’ve dreamed

  “The Silence,” Peristerophobia

  After a few weeks of living with my dad again, I received a message from Andrew. It was a song called “Flowers.” When I clicked on it, I heard something completely different than what I’d expected. It wasn’t like his usual Peristerophobia songs, and it wasn’t like anything from his old demos before they were signed.

  It was just him. Raw, acoustic, and nothing but pure Andrew Washington.

  “Everything’s wrong here, something’s missing here, and I’m missing you. I’m in a thousand pieces, every single one screaming your name. None of us can live in harmony, I don’t know how to live without your melody. Oh, I think you loved the music, but you only ever liked me.”

  By the time the song hit the chorus, I had to press pause. I could hear everything he felt in the tone of his voice, and it killed me to listen to it. I had to take a moment to breathe, to remind myself that ending things were for the best. I pressed play again and stared up at the ceiling.

  “Oh, I think you loved the music, but you only ever liked me. I’m a broken man, a drowned man. All I ever did was believe in you, but you took a hammer to my heart. It’s over, we’re over. I’m a thousand pieces, every single one singing our song. It’s an off-key, broken melody. Oh, I think you loved the music, but you only ever liked me.”

  I jumped off my bed and made my way to my keyboard, my heart racing. I wanted to create a reply to the song. I needed to. I played a melody that I’d been messing around with for a while, and I changed a few things to have them match the notes in the song that Andrew had sent me.

  I felt warm, at home, as I wrote down each note, memorizing the
movements of my fingers, the feel of them against the keys. I kept playing it over and over again, until my fingers ached and I ran out of tears. I had the music down, but I didn’t have the words.

  Fuck it, Joan was right. Writing songs felt right. When I sat down at the piano, I felt like me. I hadn’t felt like that since I was fifteen. It was like a piece of my heart had been missing for years, and I’d finally found it.

  Writing my own music, being a musician, it didn’t make me Cassidy. Sure, if I was still with Andrew, sleeping with him and singing his songs, that would be different. But making my own music, playing my own songs? That was not a Cassidy move. That was an April move.

  I played the song over and over again, hoping the words would come to me. It took weeks of playing the song on repeat before they finally came to me, flowing out of me faster than I could write them down. The ink smudged on the page and I had to squint to figure out what I’d meant on some parts, but I’d written it and I loved it.

  As I sat down on my bed, Pigeon sitting by my side, I looked over the lyrics I’d just written. They were a jumbled mess at that moment, but I knew I could work it into something usable. Besides, it might have been a mess, but it was my mess. And that was all that mattered.

  I sat down at my keyboard and began to play, putting the words to the music that I knew so well, crossing things out and fixing them as I sang. The piece of paper was an even bigger mess by the end, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to play the song for myself. I wanted it to be just right.

  After a few more adjustments and a few more days, I called Joan.

  “I haven’t heard from you in a while. How are you?” she asked.

  I clutched my necklace and took a deep breath.

  “I need your opinion.”

  “On what? I have so many opinions.”

  “On my song.”

  “What?”

  “My song?” I said again, suddenly nervous.

  “Like, as in a song you wrote?” she asked. I could hear her smile through the phone. “You wrote a song?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Oh my God!”

  “Come over? I don’t exactly want to go over to your place, considering who I might run into…”

  Joan went quiet for a moment before she said, “He’s not even here. He’s living at his place. Your old place.”

  “Oh.”

  I didn’t think it would hurt so much to hear that. Of course he still lived there. We had a lease. But to think of him there without me, without Pigeon, without my furniture…

  I shook my head, trying to get the image out of my mind.

  “Get your ass over here, please,” I said.

  Joan knocked on the door a little bit later, walked in, and smiled at me.

  “Let’s hear it!” she said. She sat down on my bed.

  I was a little nervous to play it in front of someone other than Pigeon, because I knew he’d never judge me and love me no matter how awful my song was, but I took a deep breath and placed my fingers on the keys. If I could sing a song like “Spackling” and let it be recorded for an album that thousands of people bought, I could handle letting Joan hear my song.

  Sure, she’d probably mock me if I sucked, but that was what friends were for. At least I didn’t have to worry about her being honest. I could trust her more than I could trust Erica, for sure.

  “Are you sure you want to hear this?” I asked.

  “Yes! Now play it, and I will give you honest feedback. Swear to God.”

  I took another deep breath, and I played the song, singing the lyrics I’d worked so hard on. I felt tears welling up in my eyes as I sang, and as I played the last few chords, I looked up at Joan. She was staring at me in shock.

  “What have I told you about your voice?” she asked with a small smile.

  “That bad?” I asked.

  She let out a laugh.

  “No! That good. You should play it at Cranberry.”

  My eyes widened with fear at the thought.

  “Oh, no. I’m not doing that. This song is for me, no one else.”

  “Come on, April. That song is totally for Andrew. You need to let him hear it. Send it to him, at least. It’s a response to ‘Flowers,’ isn’t it? It’s like he wrote you a question and you responded with an answer. It’s perfect.”

  I had a feeling that if I played it at Cranberry, she’d somehow get Andrew there to hear it. But maybe she was right. Maybe he did need to hear it.

  “Honestly?” I asked.

  “Honestly,” she said. “It needs to be heard. Have you even listened to it? I mean, like, have you actually recorded it and listened to it?” I shook my head. “Do it. If you hate what you hear, then leave it in a box for only you to listen to. But if you don’t think it’s shit, play it at Cranberry this Friday night. Trust me on this, April. It’s meant to be heard. Let the world listen to it.”

  “I can’t,” I said quietly.

  “Why not? What’s stopping you?”

  Fear. Like usual.

  “You don’t have to be scared,” Joan said, as if she read my mind. “You know, I’m not the best singer, but I’ve sang at Cranberry, and it’s always a good experience. Every time. You have nothing to worry about. It’s not as scary as performing in front of five hundred people in a venue, I’m sure. And you’ve done that. I’m sure you can handle it.”

  I wasn’t by myself in the venue, though. At Cranberry, all eyes would be on me and only me. That was terrifying.

  “How do you know that I’m scared?” I asked.

  She smiled.

  “You think I don’t know you by now? God, you and Andrew are so alike sometimes.”

  I took in a sharp breath. Hearing his name like that hurt more than I thought it would. Sure, I was the one that ended things, but I still missed him like crazy.

  “Go to Cranberry. Play the song. Trust me on this one,” she said one last time before leaving my room and closing the door behind her.

  I played the song once more, with my phone’s recorder on. I listened to it afterward. And I made a decision.

  I took Joan’s advice and went to Cranberry on Friday night. I decided it wouldn’t hurt to play the song in front of people who literally couldn’t boo me. I sat at the counter and waved at Calvin to come over to me.

  “Hey! Need a coffee?” he asked.

  “No, it’ll make me jittery before my performance. Not a good idea,” I said.

  “I thought I saw your name on the sign up sheet,” he said with a smile. “How about water, then? Tea?”

  “Water, no ice. Please.”

  He brought me a room temperature water, just how I liked it before a performance. Easier on my vocal chords.

  “Nervous?” he asked.

  “A bit, yeah. I have a feeling that Joan got Andrew to come,” I said. “And I don’t know if I mentioned it to you, but he and I aren’t together anymore.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that.”

  “Oh, so I did tell you. Sorry.”

  “Nope, you didn’t,” he said with a smile. “But Chad is surprisingly chatty.”

  “Oh? You ended up talking to him, then?” I asked.

  “Yeah. He’s not into me, but he’s a cool guy. We actually have a few things in common. He’s fun to hang out with when he’s not completely wasted.”

  “There are times when he’s not completely wasted?” I asked with a laugh.

  He nodded.

  “I got together with him and Doug earlier this week. We hung out at a bar and Chad didn’t even drink.”

  “Weird. I didn’t think that was possible. But… Doug?” I raised my eyebrows a couple of times. They really would make a cute couple.

  He rolled his eyes.

  “Stop trying to set me up with Doug. It’s not going to happen.”

  “Fine, fine. I’m up next, anyway. Wish me luck?”

  “Nah. You don’t need luck,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  Unlike most musicians at Cr
anberry’s open mike night, I decided not to introduce myself. I set up my keyboard, cleared my throat, and began to play. Then I sang.

  My voice didn’t waver, my stomach didn’t flip. I’d played the song over a hundred times, and I was more than ready for the performance. My voice rang out loud and clear through Cranberry, not a hint of fear or doubt in it.

  “I didn’t mean to knock you down, I didn’t mean to break you. You fell on your own, fell off your pedestal, toppled so easily. Fell in the deep end, now you’re drowning, drowning, drowning. I hear your voice a thousand times, screaming my name. I can’t swim to save you, can’t be the girl you need. I can only leave you to drown in the deep,” I sang.

  I continued to play the chords, singing the song I’d written, but I didn’t see him. I didn’t realize how much I’d been hoping that Joan would bring Andrew, that he would hear the song. It was for him, after all. It was my response to his song.

  Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe Joan couldn’t talk him into showing up. He probably didn’t even want to see me.

  “You hold onto the edge, your fingers grip my skin. Let go, it’s time to let go. I’ll admit missing you comes easily, and the idea of loving you will never leave. I know you’re hiding, deep down somewhere, but you fell too easily, after you hit the top. You can sing your songs about love, sing about how I messed up, but you’re going to keep drowning. Drown, drown, drown, drown, drowning in the deep. Go on, keep drowning.”

  As I hit another repeat of the chorus, I felt eyes burning a hold onto my own. I searched the room to find them, and immediately connected with a pair of familiar brown eyes. My heart began to pound. He came. He heard my song.

  I stopped singing. Stopped playing. The room was so quiet, everyone staring at me in complete silence.

  “Andrew?” I said, my voice ringing out through the quiet of Cranberry, my fingers frozen in place on the keyboard.

  He stood up from where he’d been sitting at the counter and walked over to the stage.

  “Can we talk?”