Page 42 of Irreversible

“She went through this phase with a cheap synthesizer that had all these terrible electronic effects that were meant to sound like an orchestra or a choir. Blasted that thing at top volume in the backyard ‘cause it was banned in the house while she taught herself to play.” A chuckle slips out, organic and pure. “The neighborhood dogs had their own opinions on that. She called them herbackground singers.”

I laugh. The sound startles me for a beat and sends a shot of warmth to my chest. Wrapping my palm around the pick, I place a closed hand to my heart and sink into the wall.

“But her dream was to own something she could make real music on, so she saved up every penny she’d get from holidays and allowances. She refused to blow a single cent of it on bullshit stuff like candy. Real disciplined for a kid, you know?”

“Impressive,” I say softly, lost to the story, his words, everything.

“Eventually, she was able to buy herself a nice guitar. One she could tune that came from an actual music store. It was her prized possession. She played every waking moment until she figured out how to play all the songs she loved.”

My eyelids flutter open in time with a shaky exhale. “Was she a songwriter?”

“Sometimes she wrote her own music,” he tells me, his voice a fusion of controlled emotion. “Her real appreciation was for cover songs she could put her unique twist on.”

“Those are the best.”

“That’s when she started singing. Until something happened and she put it all away for a while.”

I press my cheek against the wall, as if I can get closer to him somehow. “What happened?”

“Some asshole told her she sang off-key and was embarrassing herself.” Nick sounds closer, too. Almost like we’re back-to-back, mimicking the same position, only inches apart. “He had his own issues—no excuse, though. He was just being a jerk and took it out on her. She was actually really good.”

“She doesn’t stop, right? Making music?” The story can’t end here; I’m too invested, too captivated by the girl and her notes and strings to let her tale slip away unfinished.

One of us needs a happy ending.

“Yeah,” he says. “Once the jerk was out of her life, she decided to play for herself, because she loved it, and it didn’t matter whether she was good or not. When she got older, she had a part-time job at a coffee shop and worked up the nerve to sing her favorite song on an open-mic night. Everyone loved it, of course, because she was amazing. And she never stopped.”

I wait for more. My bare toes tap together, my legs stretched out over the edge of the cot.

“Here’s the special thing about this girl: she had this incredible capacity for forgiveness, and she was able to spreadthat gift to everyone with her music. It was healing. It was magic.”

Swallowing, I blink the mist from my eyes. “The world needs more people like that.”

He hums thoughtfully, his mind far away from here. “She grew up, kept playing, kept shining light in the dark places with this angelic voice she had. And because she had the uncanny ability to see the truth, she realized that some people only hurt others because of their own pain. So, she sought out the asshole who tried to take her music away all those years before…and she forgave him.”

My smile is glowing, entranced, and I’d give anything for him to see it.

“It was a miracle…but when she played her favorite song, something in him broke a little.”

“What song was it?” My voice is breathy and fraught, a pitch above a whisper.

“Her own rendition of ‘Wild Horses.’ Sang the hell out of that thing. Just her voice and her guitar. I swear, it would give you chills.” His control dangles by a thin thread, overpowered by raw emotion. “Damn song. Got to him every fucking time.”

“All because of that toy guitar.”

“Yeah…that blue sparkly plastic guitar.” He hums, thoughtfully. “God knows why she even bothered with the guy, but it’s a good thing she did, because he was a miserable fucking nightmare. After she came around, though, things were better. For a while, at least.”

I don’t notice the tears slipping down my cheeks, not at first, not until they dangle from my jaw like delicate pearls. One drips onto my gown, leaving a salty stain behind. I unfold my palm, staring down at the glittery pick, awareness carving new holes in my heart.

Blue and sparkly.

Inhaling sharply, I swipe at my face, breathless. “Then what happened?”

“She vanished, taking all the music in the world with her. The end.”

The end.

It can’t end there.

---