Page 76 of Hope & Harmony

Averyhatesthat I work out late. We’ve that same conversation on an almost weekly basis since we moved in together, and the frequency doesn’t seem to be decreasing in the slightest.

It doesn’t matter that it’s been three years to the day since the attack that left me unconscious in a hospital bed for weeks. It doesn’t matter that I’m on hyper-alert as I walk through the cityor that I carry pepper spray now. To Avery, my going out at night alone is something for her to worry about.

Part of me gets it, but another part of me just wants to feel free again, to have that same ease about going out that I hadbefore, and Avery’s constant questioning makes that difficult. I’ve tried to put the past behind me, even though it hasn’t been easy. Therapy and kickboxing classes have helped me work through a lot of my emotions and fears, and ifIcan move on, Avery should be able to as well.

I bump up the speed on the treadmill, my feet hitting at the same pace as the house music that’s made up the majority of my running playlist for years. The heavy bass thumps through my headphones, and I push past my original three-mile goal, feeling like I have the drive right now to go for four instead.

Running is something I’ve always really enjoyed, though part of why I loved it was because it got me outside. Now, I use the treadmill almost exclusively, though I try not to think about that too hard.

After my attack, I stormed back outside, chin high, completely unwilling to give in to even the slightest bit of fear about being out by myself at night. I’m not sure why running outside is the one thing I’ve modified in my routine. I wasn’t even running when it happened. Apparently, I was out with friends at a bar a few blocks away from the gym, though I don’t have any memories of that night.

Regardless, I like to exercise after dark, and now I run at the gym. It’s as simple as that. At the very least, I’m sure it gives my sister at least a little solace.

I hit four miles and start my cooldown, my eyes oscillating between the lights of the city outside and my own reflection in the window. Eventually, I power off the treadmill and begin my walk home.

When I get to the corner of Third Avenue, I pause, my eyes snagging on a familiar sign. I should keep walking, should head straight home, where Avery probably hasn’t gotten any homework done since I left. But tonight is the anniversary of the night I was attacked, and if there was ever a time to hold my head high and face the past in full, it’s now.

So, instead of continuing home, I turn toward Rhythm and Brews. The brick exterior and black wooden doors make the place look almost boring, like so many other New York buildings. Even as unassuming as it is, R&B is a special spot because of the music. Live music seven days a week from 7 p.m. to close. Open mic nights and jazz singers and rock bands. It’s an eclectic place, and I’ve loved it since the first time I stepped foot inside for my 21st birthday.

Though—sadly—I haven’t been back. Understandably.

The sound of whoever is playing tonight is loud enough to hear from where I stand 150 feet away, and when there’s a break between cars, I jog across the street and push through the wooden double doors before I have a chance to think better of it. The place is packed, and I hover near the entrance for a few minutes, my eyes scanning over everyone and everything. It all looks the same. The same bartenders in all black. Same crowded room and table setup. Same dim lights and a hint of weed and vape smoke in the slightly hazy air.

“Can I get you something?”

I glance at the bartender giving me a friendly smile as she wipes down the bartop in front of her. Before I can respond, the room erupts in cheers as the band finishes up a song.

“I forgot how loud this place is,” I say, stepping forward, returning her smile.

She nods. “Tonight especially. KellyKills is up there.”

My brows rise in recognition. They’re not a global sensation or anything, but evenIhave heard of KellyKills before, and I hear the lead vocalist speak into the microphone.

“We love performing in this fucking city, our hometown because New Yorkers are the best fucking people in the world.”

Another round of cheers goes up, and I shake my head, laughing quietly to myself. Normally, when I used to come to R&B, I picked the quieter nights when the music was in the background. Tonight, there’s a full-on concert happening.

“Can I get a water?” I ask the bartender. “I’m only gonna stay for one more song.”

She nods, tugging out a highball and filling it with ice.

My head jerks to the side when I hear the guitar begin to strum a melody that’s been dancing around in the back of my mind for years.

What…?

“And because you’re the best fucking people in the world, in the best fucking city in the world, we’re gonna play some new music tonight.”

More cheers, but I’m still focused on the sound of that guitar as the chords start over again, repeating from the beginning. My heart picks up pace, a kind of nervous, jittery energy beginning to pump through my veins.

“Did you want your water?” the bartender calls out to me, but I’m already slipping through the crowd, making my way toward the front of the room. It’s not a huge bar, but it’s large enough to fit maybe 150 people in with standing room only. Everyone’s on their feet, their phones high as they take pictures of the almost-famous people on the stage.

“Scotty wrote this song,” I hear over the speakers.

“Love you, Scotty!” someone shouts, and the crowd laughs.

I curse my short stature as I continue forward, wishing I could see over the heads of the people around me.

“Scotty wrote this song,” the lead repeats, “and tonight, you all are going to be the first to hear it. It’s called Wake Me Up.”

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