Page 15 of Unlocking Melodies

“Someone had to. And you weren't exactly volunteering for the job.” The words held an old hurt, but no real bite. We'd moved past blame years ago. “Though I know you read every update I send.”

“Liam-“

“Just drive, Ethan. Before you convince yourself not to.”

My office phone sat on my desk like a challenge. Six minutes passed in perfect silence - I knew because I counted each second, the way I counted everything these days. Control through measurement. Safety through precision.

On the seventh minute, I pressed the intercom.

“Mia?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Clear my schedule. For the next month.”

A pause. Then, because she was Mia and she'd known me for ten years: “Personal emergency or acquisition research?”

“Both. Neither.” I looked at the piano in the corner, at the life I'd built, at all the walls I'd constructed between past and present.

“The board meeting tomorrow-“

“Dad can handle it.”

“And the Peterson lunch-“

“Cancel everything.”

“Are you sure about this?”

The question hung in the air. Was I sure about anything anymore? About the choices I'd made? About the walls I'd built? About driving back to the one place I'd sworn never to return to?

“No,” I said honestly. “But I'm going anyway.”

“I'll handle everything here.” Mia sounded unsure but didn’t pry any longer.

I was already reaching for my coat, my keys heavy in my pocket. Because no matter how many walls I'd built or how far I'd run, some part of me had always known this truth.

One day, something would bring me back to him. And all my careful control, all my perfect plans, wouldn't be enough to stop it.

Chapter 3

Muscle Memory

Ilay in bed, listening to horses nickering and country music drifting through the windows. Apparently Past Jimmy lived in some kind of pin board for “Rustic Ranch Life.” Though given that Present Jimmy couldn't remember his own middle name, maybe I wasn't in a position to judge.

The bathroom mirror presented my first existential crisis of the day. The face staring back at me matched the photos I'd seen, but it felt like looking at an actor playing me in the movie of my life. A pretty good actor, to be fair - the kind of scruffy-but-charming look that said “I try, but not too hard.” There was a small scar near my hairline that was probably from the attack.

“Okay, Jimmy,” I told my reflection. “Time to figure out who you are. Starting with... basic hygiene?”

The bathroom counter was like an archaeological dig site of my apparently elaborate personal care routine. The electric toothbrush probably cost more than my phone - or it would have if I could remember how much either of them cost. The hair products lined up like expensive soldiers had labels worn off in specific spots, suggesting Past Jimmy had his favorites.

“Right,” I muttered, picking up a fancy-looking bottle. “Because obviously I was the kind of guy who spent...” I checked the price sticker still stuck to the bottom and choked. “Holy shit. Past Me, we need to talk about financial priorities.”

The shower presented its own mysteries. Five unmarked bottles sat in a neat row. Shampoo? Conditioner? Secret ranch potions? I sniffed each one, which only confirmed that Past Jimmy had expensive taste and possibly a side hustle as a professional smeller.

Post-shower, I stared at the deodorant. Before or after getting dressed? These were the kind of deeply personal routines no one ever had to think about, until suddenly they did. I opted for before, but who knew? Maybe I'd been doing it wrong for years and was known throughout town as That Guy Who Deodorants Wrong.

The closet was its own adventure. Vintage concert tees hung next to button-downs that definitely required ironing skills I wasn't sure I possessed. The shoes were organized by type, which felt suspiciously unlike me, though I had no actual evidence for that feeling.

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