Page 42 of Unlocking Melodies

I jumped, nearly dropping the tip jar. Nina had that look again – the one that said she knew way more than she was telling. Which, to be fair, described most of my interactions these days.

“How did you–“

“Honey, I've been watching you two dance around each other for a while now.” She started wiping down the bar with the kind of focus usually reserved for defusing bombs. “Though I have to say, tonight's performance was a bit more dramatic than usual. Mrs. Henderson's already updated three different betting pools.”

“Of course she has.” I stared at the napkin, tracing the precise loops of Ethan's handwriting. “Nina, when I was playing, I started remembering things. Not clearly, but...”

“Sometimes the heart remembers what the mind forgets, honey.” She said it casually, like she was commenting on the weather rather than dropping philosophical bombs about my amnesia.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Her smile was gentle but knowing – the kind that made me wonder if she'd been taking lessons from Mrs. Henderson in cryptic small-town wisdom. “It means exactly what it needs to mean.” She paused in her cleaning, studying me with unexpected seriousness. “And sometimes that's exactly what needs to happen.”

“You know, it's really unfair that everyone in this town seems to know more about my life than I do.”

“Not more,” she corrected. “Just different parts. We all have pieces of your story that you told us, Jimmy. But the most important parts?” She nodded toward the napkin still in my hand. “Those are starting to write themselves again.”

I looked down at Ethan's message, thinking about the way the music had flowed tonight, the way memories had surfaced not as clear pictures but as feelings, sensations, moments that seemed to center around the man who'd watched me play with such carefully hidden pain.

“I still don't understand what happened between us,” I admitted.

“Maybe you don't need to understand yet.” Nina squeezed my shoulder. “Maybe you just need to let yourself feel it first. The understanding can come later.”

The napkin felt weirdly heavy in my hand, like it carried more weight than just Ethan's elegant scrawl. Some endings need to be rewritten. Was that what was happening here? Werewe somehow getting a second chance at a story I couldn't even remember properly?

“You know what's really annoying?” I tucked the napkin carefully into my pocket. “Past Jimmy would probably know exactly what to do with all this.”

Nina's laugh was warm and real. “Oh honey, Past Jimmy was just as confused as you are. He just hid it better.” She started gathering empty glasses. “Though he didn't have nearly as many people betting on his love life. Sky's spreadsheet has gone completely viral in the senior community.”

“Wonderful. Nothing like having your emotional crisis tracked in Excel format.”

“PowerPoint, actually. Mrs. Henderson insisted on pie charts.”

I groaned, but something in my chest felt lighter. Maybe Nina was right. Maybe understanding could wait. Maybe for now, it was enough to let myself feel the music, the memories, the way my heart seemed to know things my mind had forgotten.

Chapter 10

Defense Mechanisms

The inn's floral wallpaper was starting to mock me. Three hours of pacing had probably worn a path in the antique carpet, but sleep felt like a distant concept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Jimmy at that piano, his hands moving across the keys like he'd never forgotten, playing our piece like it was still fresh in his muscle memory even if his mind couldn't recall it.

My phone buzzed for the twentieth time.

Mia

Your father scheduled for meetings in Manhattan next week.He's asking questions about small-town investment strategies. Should I start looking for good defense lawyers?

The last one almost made me smile. Almost. Through my window, The Watering Hole's lights still glowed, a beacon in the quiet town. I could see Jimmy and Nina closing up, their movements comfortable and familiar. Every time Jimmy passedthe piano, his hand would brush the keys absently, like he couldn't quite help himself. Each touch made my chest tighten with memories he couldn't share.

My perfectly ordered world had developed a distinctly Jimmy-shaped crack, and no amount of corporate strategy could patch it. The schedule on my laptop mocked me with its efficiency – board meetings, acquisition reviews, the carefully structured life I'd built now feeling like a prison of my own making.

I grabbed my keys. The car’s leather seats felt too pristine for my current state of mind, but at least driving meant doing something besides wearing out Mrs. Henderson's carpet while contemplating how quickly eight years of careful distance had crumbled.

Oakwood Grove at night was painfully charming, like something from a movie about small-town life. I passed Sarah's Diner, dark now but still somehow radiating that warmth that drew Jimmy every morning for coffee and conversation. The park where he walked Melody stretched out under streetlights, the bench where he usually stopped to share his apparently addictive pickle-flavored chips with local kids looking abandoned and accusatory.

My car's navigation system kept trying to redirect me to New York, the blue line on the screen a constant reminder of the empire I was supposed to be running. Three hours away, my father was probably already planning his “surprise” visit, ready to remind me of everything I'd walked away from at Rosewood. Everything I'd tried to protect Jimmy from.

Instead of the highway, I turned toward Rolling Hill Ranch. My phone rang – Dane, my oldest friend and the only person besides Mia who knew the whole story.

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