Page 37 of Destructive Truths

Leaning back in my chair, I fold my arms across my chest and listen as Mr O’Dowd continues. “Sound is a potent source, and depending on how you use and combine it, you can connect with the people listening, tapping into a vast range of emotions. Today we are looking at the power of song. First, take a few minutes to choose a song you relate to. Then, once you have your piece, I want you to write your name, not the song, onto a piece of paper and drop it into the hat.” He drops the hat onto his desk. “Every Tuesday, I will draw a few names from the hat, and each student will perform their piece using their chosen instrument.”

A collection of groans floods the classroom, making Mr O’Dowd shake his head. “Performance is fifty percent of your final exam. If you’re in my honours class, you’ve no excuse. Each of you has one or more music mediums—vocal or instrumental. Now, no more protests. You’ve got three minutes.”

Unwillingly, my gaze lands on the girl across the room. With her head bowed, her dark hair covers her face like a thick curtain. My fingers twitch as I drum my pen against the desk, itching to touch her and push her thick natural waves away from her face so I can lose my anger in the colour of her amber eyes.

But then this morning replays through my mind, reminding me how quickly she walked into Devereux’s arms. Sure, I gave her the push she needed, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. Drawing my attention away from her, I drop my gaze to the blank page before me as I scan through my mental music library, trying to find the perfect song to express my feelings.

A few minutes pass, and Mr O'Dowd calls it. Row by row, he walks along, and the students drop their names into the hat. Once he’s collected everybody’s, he walks to the front of the classroom and pulls one out.

“Rohan King. You’re up, kid.”

Usually, it wouldn’t faze me to perform in front of my class. I've done it a hundred times before, but that was before her—before she landed in Killybegs and turned my world upside down.

Ignoring the jitters trampolining in my stomach, I push from my desk and stalk towards the piano, ignoring how Saoirse follows my every movement with her taunting eyes.

Finally, I sit in front of the piano and roll my shoulders back.

To my right, Mr O’Dowd sits at his desk, kicking his feet onto the tabletop. “Okay, class. Rohan will open our lesson. I want you all to listen carefully and take notes on the tempo, melody, and lyrics. Once he’s finished, we will discuss what emotional impact the song had on you and why.”

With a wave of his hand, he urges me to begin. My lungs expand with a deep inhale, and my fingers hover over the keys. Finally, I begin, opening the song with the bass note G. My right hand explores the melody, repeating the opening twice. I look up over the edge of the piano right as the lyrics to “Exile” by Taylor Swift and Bon Iver flee past my lips.

I can’t look away, singing every word to the girl sitting directly in my line of sight. Saoirse’s mouth hangs open, shock raising her brow, and judging by how her breath quickens, she knows I’m aiming every lyric to her, too.

The lyrics are perfect—a broken man singing about seeing the girl he loves in the arms of another. He expresses how quickly she moved on and how he doesn’t know why he’s still defending her when she’s no longer his to protect.

Her eyes darken, and she bites down on her lip, anger pinching colour onto her cheeks. When I get to the instrumental break between the first chorus and the second verse, Saoirse pushes from her seat and makes her way towards me.

“What are you doing?” Beibhinn mutters, eyes wide.

Saoirse ignores her, stopping next to me as I continue to play the melody.

Everyone is staring, waiting for what happens next, but then she opens her mouth and starts singing Taylor Swift’s verse. Her voice is like silk, and I lose track of everything around me.

The lyrics are like a knife, jutting into the centre of my chest, piercing so deep, I don’t think the wound will ever heal. The words paint a picture of a man who thinks he’s better than the guy she chose, about how he may be willing to get his knuckles bloody to get her back, but she is done. She’s given him enough chances, it’s over, and she’s not his problem anymore.

Her eyes never leave mine as the song continues, windows to her soul, one I broke with my necessary lies. Every word she sings digs the knife a little deeper, stating she doesn’t care who she’s offending by choosing someone else. Her choice has already been made.

Together, we hold each other with nothing more than our gaze, bringing the song to a close. Tears prick her eyes, and I battle the emotions beneath my skin. This is it, the moment I genuinely lose her.

When the final note echoes around us, I stand.

The classroom remains silent, all eyes lingering on Saoirse and me. The unspoken words steal the breath from my chest, and the need to be anywhere but here weighs down on me with the force of a freight train. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I bite down on my lip.

Peering over my shoulder, I level Mr O'Dowd with a glare. “Jealousy, heartbreak, betrayal. Take your fucking pick.”

One last look at Saoirse, and I walk straight past her and out the fucking door, slamming it behind me.

Fuck this shit!

TWENTY-THREE

LIAM

Something is wrong. Saoirse has been off since yesterday morning, but I can’t pinpoint what the hell happened after she left me at the entrance to go to her class. I’ve been racking my brain, mulling over a thousand scenarios. She says she’s fine, but after growing up with Beibhinn, I’ve learned the true meaning behind those words, and they go something like this: Ask me that question again, and I’ll imbed my pointiest high heel in your junk.

Desperate for some—or any—insight, I even poked at my sister for advice. But unfortunately, that girl is loyal to a fault where her new best friend is concerned—her lips are locked up tighter than Fort Knox, divulging little-to-no details.

At first, I thought Saoirse might be worried about her upcoming initiation, but she’s progressed with our twice-a-day sessions, leading me to believe there’s something more to her sombre mood. If I had to take a swing, I’d bet Rohan has something to do with it. Not that she’d tell me if he did.

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