Page 86 of Perfect Pitch

After that, it’s every man for himself.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Don’t you dare say ’80s music is bad. It gave you some of the best bar music to sing along to ever.

Besides, reportedly Beckett Miller loves it and I’d shake him all night long.

—Viego Martinez, Celebrity Blogger

My headphones are plugged into my baby synthesizer. I need to release some of the emotion pulsating through me since my mother left New York to head back to Texas, but I don’t want to disturb Trevor. After his toes started to look like uncooked sausages despite elevation and ice, I forced him to see an orthopedic doctor for his ankle.

He came home with a bottle of pain pills and hobbling around on crutches. “What I did should not have caused a fracture.”

“Obviously when you’re as accident prone as you are, it can.”

He rolled his eyes as he was exiting the elevator and almost face planted.

I ordered him straight to bed to elevate his ankle after which I used the time to call Fallon and catch her up on the goings on. The minute the call connected, she shrieked, “Your page is trending on TikTok!”

I blinked repeatedly. “You’re shitting me.”

“Not even close, girlfriend. People are duetting with your version of Africa as we speak.”

Since we were talking over my Mac, I pulled up my TikTok account on my phone. My jaw unhinged. “Fal, I have nine million new followers.”

She nodded frantically. “Wait! Hold on!” She leaps off her bed and flings open her dorm room door. The next thing I hear is a faint sound that got stronger.

And stronger.

Then, “No! That’s not good enough.”

“You’re just pissed because my French is better than yours,” comes a gruff male voice.

A haughty female counters, “And you can’t carry a tune. So, let’s try again.”

Then Fallon flips the phone around before announcing our presence. “Or you two could stop trying to create a duet and just say hey to Kensington?”

Tears sprung to my eyes when I saw two of Fallon’s friends fall over themselves because of my music. “So incredible!” one gushed. “Powerful. Incredible pipes!” the other said.

A third, off camera, drawled, “Love to see the two of you sing together, Fal.”

I smile. “Maybe we can arrange that when I come to visit.”

At that, Fallon flipped me around, her face lit with astonishment. “Are you serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I was afraid...” She left the rest of her sentence unsaid, leaving me with a sour taste in my mouth.

“You’re my best friend, Fallon. None of this has changed that. Nothing ever will.”

The feelings I need to rid are a combination of rootlessness and loneliness. Between my mother leaving and the lingering emotion from talking to Fallon, I’m lost. I have a firm foot in my future, but I refuse to let go of my past.

As my fingers fly up and down the keyboard, I’m satisfied with what I’ve done. Ripping the headset out of the jack, I hit record and begin the song again. I know intuitively where I want to add in harmony to the song’s existing melody. Even though I prefer to layer in sounds so I can mix them in depending on my mood, I still add my vocals. What is being recorded are the complimentary notes as my fingers fly up and down the keyboard—rolling scales or just punches of beats until the song ends.

Lips curving, I murmur, “I do my best talking without words.”

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