Going downstairs, I get Mila out of her high chair and bring her into the front room with me. She jumps off the sofa almost immediately and toddles over to her toy box. I let her go and turn on the TV.
It’s right there:
IS THE LEAD SINGER OF DIRTY B. A DADDY?
Yes. Yes, he fucking is, and it’s none of your damn business, you nosy bitch.
Somehow I don’t think Marc would be impressed if I sent that in to their “What Do You Think?” email address. The screen flicks to their reporter, and the backdrop is my house. I turn the volume up to listen.
“ . . . since his coming out yesterday to carry some groceries in, there have been no sightings of Conner or, indeed, any of Dirty B.”
Carrying groceries in is making news now? Don’t they have anything better to be doing?
“And what’s the general consensus outside the house this morning, Anna? Is there any truth to the reports?”
“Unfortunately we don’t know. Dirty B’s representatives aren’t returning calls or emails, so one would assume there is some truth. There are also ideas that the mother is someone he met just as the band rose to fame and is coming back for child support.”
I snort. Right. Sofie hasn’t asked me for a cent, and if the look on her face when I bought the baby gate and sandbox is anything to go by, she doesn’t intend to, either.
“Figures that they’d come to that conclusion sooner or later,” she says in a small voice from the doorway.
“They’re reporters.” I turn the TV off and drop the remote on the cushion next to me. “They thrive on making crap up.”
“Bad!” Mila shouts, pointing at me. “Bad!”
I jolt and look between her and Sofie.
Her lips twitch. “The c-word. It’s a naughty word in this house.”
I raise my eyebrows. “That c-word is the naughty one?”
“Yes, because the other one won’t be used.” She grabs a brush from the side table and runs it through her wet hair. “I need to go the store later. I’m taking Mila.”
“Why?”
“Because it’ll look suspicious if I don’t. I have no family here to look after her while I run errands.”
I rub my hand over my face. “I’ll get it delivered for you.”
“No you won’t.” She looks at me hard. “I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
The house is eerily silent without Mila’s giggles or shouts. Even when Aidan sneaks in through the back with my guitar, it’s quiet.
“Did anyone see you?”
“I ran through the woods. Police have it blocked off.”
I nod. “Good. Tate said they followed him to Walmart earlier.”
Aidan snorts. “They followed Dad to the hardware store. They’re a fuckin’ joke. They think we’re gonna come to you every time we leave the house. You’re causin’ a riot, bro.”
“Yeah, well, who wants a quiet tour break, eh?” I take the guitar case from him. “Thanks for this.”
He smiles knowingly. “No problem. When you gonna come clean?”
“When they find out where I am.” I unzip the case.
Aidan leaves the way he came, meaning I’m alone in the silence once more. I lift my guitar out and rest it on my knee, strumming my fingers over the strings. They vibrate softly, one after another, filling the air with the sweet acoustic sound.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. My fingers move into place and strum, plucking the strings in no particular order. Every movement is free, unrestrained by lyrics or bandmates or a recording studio.
Soon, though, soon the notes come together and make sense. They form a slow melody, one that doesn’t need the beat of a drum or the buzz of an electric guitar. It’s pure and easy, and I pause only long enough to grab my notepad and pencil from the case.
I sketch music bars and jot down the notes I remember. I replay them, changing a couple out. My foot rests against the supporting bar of the chair, bringing the base of the guitar up higher, and I test out a few more.
I keep going, doing this over and over, letting myself go with the music. Each stop is to write down the notes, then I’m right back into it.
The freeness of being able to write music at my own pace floods through me. My lips twitch up, and when I get to the end of the bar, I drop the pencil and start over.
My fingers buzz the strings, filling the air with vibration after vibration. The melody is sad yet sweet, a wish and a memory. Music always reflects what’s inside. This is how I feel, how I cope.
It always has been, and yet again, I’m writing music for her. Because I don’t know another way.
I tap my foot to the beat, and the chorus is faster, begging for words. I hum in key, my mind taking me to another place. What was a simple compilation of notes is now a song in desperate need of lyrics.
“Is that new?”
I turn, flattening my hand over the strings, and stare into bright blue eyes. “Yep.”
“It’s good.” Sofie smiles, turning. She appears again a few seconds later, her arms laden with bags.
I put the guitar on the table and get up. “Pass them here.”
“Thanks.” She tucks some hair behind her ear and goes back outside.
“Where’s Mila?” I ask, taking a second load of shopping from her.
“Upstairs. She fell asleep in the car.” Sofie locks the door and walks past me into the kitchen.
I follow her in and help her unload the bags. Every now and then she points me to the right place for an item, but we don’t speak again. I fill up the kettle and flick it on, grabbing two mugs as she fills the fridge.
“Thank you,” she says softly when I pass her a cup of coffee.
“You’re welcome.” I take my own and study her.
She looks tired, if the shadows under her eyes are anything to go by. Her cheeks get pink as she feels me watching her, and I know I should look away, but I can’t.
It’s like a constant Ping-Pong game. One minute I’m mad, then the next I can’t stop staring at her. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel, how she wants me to feel. Fuck, I don’t even know how I want to feel.
It changes so fucking often.
Sofie puts her mug on the side table and brings her eyes to mine. “I’m sorry. For last night.”
“Don’t worry about it. You were drunk.”
“I wasn’t drunk. I was tipsy.”
“Well, whatever you were, you clearly couldn’t handle it.”