Page 87 of We Redeemed the Rain

“It was silly. I was a kid who was overly inspired ninety percent of the time. The truth is, I’m not sure people have inner songs.”

“Maybe you only stopped hearin’ them.”

“Yes.” I whispered. “I did.”

He waited a few moments. “Why?”

“I wish I knew. Maybe I…nevermind. I don’t really know.”

“Bea.”

“What?”

“Finish your thought. I wanna listen.”

I took a deep breath and sighed, mentally processing as I talked. “I think music becoming my livelihood changed my relationship with it. It’s hard not to think about money and fans and wonder what people will think of a song instead of just playing the ones stirring in my chest. Sometimes the ones inside me feel too…raw. So I dumb them down or don’t play them at all…and I don’t know. Maybe ignoring that music made me deaf to it.”

“That sucks.”

“It really does.” I swiped a silent tear off my cheek. “But I did it to myself.”

“I get it though. Passion versus income. Makin’ what you love how you live changes the game.”

“Yeah.” My voice was barely audible.

A few long beats of silence passed as I sat there, dumbly and silently wracking my brain for a song to play.

“It’s in you. Don’t doubt that.” He took a deep inhale like he was going to speak, but didn’t for a few long moments. When his voice finally eked out, it fell like a snowflake, soft and quiet, on my heart. “Whenwe met, you played me.”

The ceiling blurred in my vision, and I squeezed Glory to my chest, pushing words around the lump in my throat. “Did I?”

“I needed to remember there was good in the world. I needed hope, Bea. And every single thing you played sounded like hope to me.”

A tear leaked down my cheek and into my hair.

“Did you—hear a song that night?”

“Yes.” I mindlessly strummed the pad of my thumb down on open strings.

“Tonight’s not about money or impressin’ anyone. Just enjoy it.”

I sniffed and lifted the edge of the quilt to wipe the moisture off my face. When my hands found Glory’s strings, I didn’t feel it. I didn’t hear anything special. I didn’t even particularly enjoy myself. I didn’t get swept away into the emotions of the moment. I just ran through songs until my palms ached and my callouses burned.

Song after song after song.

My hand, heavy with sleep, slipped off the frets and hit the bed. I readjusted, powering through one or two more bars until my breathing deepened and my closing eyes sealed me in darkness.

A few minutes later, shuffling pulled me up from the deep. Glory lifted from my chest. The snap latches on her case sounded submerged—like someone pressed a hand against them to mute their metallicclick. A quilt wrapped around me. Gentle fingers skimmed down my hair.

Then Tag’s seat squeaked as he settled back into it.

Even as sleep dragged me back into oblivion, my chest filled to bursting.

He didn’t request a song.Everyonerequested a song.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Bea

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