Page 84 of Take What You Want

“If I’d have known you here, I would’ve.”

I smile. “Next time.” Then, I ask, “Are you in a rush or do you have a minute? I don’t know how long you were listening, but I’d like to play what I have for you and get your thoughts.”

Walker immediately strides over the piano and leans against the window. “Nowhere else I’d rather be right now. Let’s hear it.”

I play the song for him, or more so that elements of what will eventually become a song. The first time, he sits silently, listening closely and closing his eyes to get the feel for it. On my second run-through, he pauses me now and then with a gentle tap on my shoulder to ask about the intention of a note change or filling in a lyric where I bookmark spots with a simple hum.

As time goes on and we bounce ideas back and forth, the energy in the room charges with excitement and creativity. He eventually sits on the piano bench next to me, head bent forward with his left ear angled toward the piano. His smile matches my own and with his help, I take the pieces that I had when I walked in here earlier this morning and find myself with a fleshed-out demo.

“God, I’ve missed doing this with you,” I say, slightly breathless as I sing out the final notes and stop the recording I had started on the last run-through on my phone.

“Just like old times,” Walker says dreamily even as his eyes turn sad.

“Old times,” I repeat, nostalgia coating my tongue. “Thanks, man. This song wouldn’t have come together like this if you weren’t here with me.”

He claps me on the back. “Sure it would’ve. Just might’ve taken you a while longer.”

“That’s for damn sure.”

“And now you can give me writing credits,” he teases, and I push him off the bench. Or try to, but he’s a whole lot of man and even though I’m fairly strong, I don’t think I actually move him.

He stands, laughing, and stretches. At the sight, my own muscles ache in my lower back and I wonder how much time has passed.

“Damn, ate up the whole afternoon,” Walker says. “I’ll be blaming you when Scar asks me why I didn’t get the chores done that I was supposed to.”

I snort. “Go for it.”

“How’s Janie doing, by the way?” I freeze at his innocent question and then force myself to relax as he continues, “Thanks again for letting her stay with you. I appreciate you putting her up.”

My head was so caught up in the creative headspace I fall into when I’m in the studio that I didn’t think about Walker and Jane and what happened the other night between us and the further wedge that will inevitably drive between me and my best friend. When we were teenagers, it made sense to us to keep things a secret. A safer bet for everyone involved.

But now nine years later, I realize that was a mistake. Because the betrayal of Jane breaking her pact with Walker is far less than us hiding everything that has happened between us all these years and lying by omission to his face.

My stomach drops as I do my best to appear casual. “It’s no problem at all. She seems to be doing great.”

“I had offered her to stay with me and Scar, but I don’t think she wanted to live with a couple. But it’s not like we don’t have the room for her.”

“Probably didn’t want to hear her brother and his girlfriend going at it all night,” I joke, but it’s strained.

He huffs, then playfully shoves my shoulder. “Probably nothing worse than what she’s hearing at your place, am I right?”

I laugh and play along, but he couldn’t be farther from the truth. It feels like someone took a fork and stabbed my intestinesand is slowly twirling them around. Flashes of the alley race through my mind and I shut them down, the guilt burning like acid.

It was easy to ignore it all before. Pretend like nothing ever happened because for years, Jane and I were apart and there wasn’t anything really to hide once we broke up. But now that we’re back in each other’s lives like this…I don’t know how much longer I can lie to him.

But it’s not just my decision, so I shove down the gnawing guilt and chat with my best friend like nothing is amiss until we both take a look at the clock and decide to head home.

As I pull up the driveway, my house glows from within and it makes me smile, knowing that means Jane is home. The air is filled with the scent of her favorite vanilla birch candles as soon as I swing open the door.

Noise from the TV spills out from the living room into the kitchen as I stop by the fridge to grab a drink. Once I pop the tab on a can of Coke and take a long glug, I make my way into the living room. “Honey, I’m home,” I call out, and Jane doesn’t even bother turning her head to look at me. But her shoulders shake slightly and I take satisfaction in making her laugh, even if she tries to hide it from me.

She’s sitting cross-legged on the couch with a pile of paperwork on one side and her laptop on the other. But she’s paying neither of them any mind as her focus is glued to the TV. I stroll up behind her and ask, “What are you watching?”

She doesn’t bother turning around. “The Olympics.”

I lean over the back of the couch. “Since when do you watch anything to do with sports?”

“Since the people participating in them look like that,” she says, pointing at the screen.

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