Wren giggles. “Oh, definitely.”

After having the freedom to be as loud as she wants for another twenty minutes, Wren is in a great mood as we leave the shop.

She bounces up and down as we maneuver through the crowd of tourists back to where I parked the car.

“Did you see how fast I was going at the end, Daddy? I think I’m a natural!”

“Definitely a natural,” I reply. “You’ll be rocking out in no time.”

“Can I start taking drum lessons?”

“Absolutely, kid. I’ll find a teacher as soon as we’re back in Boston.”

She’s so full of excitement that it’s contagious, and I find myself grinning as we make our way back home.

Still, in the back of my mind, the memory of holding that violin sticks to me like sea-salted sweat. The feel of the strings beneath my fingers, the way the music seemed to pour out of me despite my rustiness… it’s awakening something inside me. I just wish I could figure out if it’s good or bad.

***

Later that evening, I’m sitting at my electric piano in the music room. The sheet music scattered across the top of it is a mess of half-finished ideas and abandoned projects.

But tonight, something clicks.

The melody I played earlier at the shop is still stuck in my mind, weaving itself into something new. Something less ferocious. Something more tender. More experimental.

I scribble down notes, play them back, tweak them, then play again. The hours slip by, the mix of cacophonous and harmonious sounds resonating in my headphones so that I don’t wake up Wren.

I’ve been desperate to come up with something fresh lately. I got a call from my agent last month, and she mentioned that another Noah Clark movie was in pre-production. A thriller—something new for the popular young actor. It’s set to start filming in the fall, and my name is already on the list of potential producers for the soundtrack.

I told my agent not to get her hopes up, though. I wasn’t feeling very inspired at the time of the phone call, and I hadn’t been too hopeful about inspiration returning to me in Mermaid Shores.

Little did I know that Alina Sokolov would waltz back into my life. Equal parts frustrating and fascinating, she’s about as inspiring as any person can get. Not that I could ever admit that to myself during my Juilliard days.

Not that I’ll ever tell my agent—or anyone, for that matter—that this piece is born out of the confusing knot of emotions I feel for an old school rival who happens to be the most beautiful and intimidating person I’ve ever known.

Yet, as I play the drafted melody again, frustration gnaws at me. Something is missing. A counterpoint, maybe. A contrasting voice to balance the piece.

I lean back in the rickety wooden chair, running a hand through my hair. I can feel the way it’s sticking up at odd angles, making me feel like a mad scientist locked away in his lab.

The answer is right there, just out of reach.

And then, like a riptide, it yanks me under.

I need Alina. This song needsher. Not just her violin, but her perspective. Her instinct, which had always been the thing that made me feel the most jealous. This piece needs her ability to take a melody and transform it into something utterly transcendent.

She’s the better musician. I can admit that now.

But, at the same time, I’m the better composer. If I am the canvas, then she is the paint, and together we could form the brushstrokes that would make something that nobody has ever heard before.

The thought makes me groan aloud, though.

Alina is my old nemesis, the one person who has had the power to bring out the worst in me. The idea of asking her for help feels absurd. Humiliating, even.

But as I stare down at the sheets of scribbled music in front of me, I know there’s no getting around it. If I want this piece to become what it’s meant to be, I need her.

Not only that, but Iwanther to be a part of this.

In fact, I’m pretty sure I want her in a more general sense, too. However,thatthought can stay safely locked away in the furthest corners of my mind.