Page 51 of Loaded

That made jingles perfect—no serious themes meant no danger. I kept things simple. So when I sit down to form the music crowding out the rest of the thoughts in my head, I can’t help shaping it around the rubric I usually create. I bang the notes into quick stanzas, with a repeating line that should be easy to remember.

Only, the song doesn’t want to do that. Not this time.

I wrestle and wrestle with it, but it keeps wriggling free. It gets longer. It gets more complicated, and then a harmony starts to form above it. Finally, I decide that if I write it down, it’ll listen better to what I want. But after jotting down page after page of notes, I realize it’s still growing. I crumple them up and throw them in the trash and collapse into bed.

When I wake up in the morning, it’s to a very strange sound.

Jake took a year of haphazard lessons before the piano teacher fired him. He absolutelycannotplay piano.

He’shorrible.

And yet, he’s playing the song I wrote, or at least, he’s trying to. I bolt upright and run out of my room. “What are you doing?”

“This song is great,” he says, not turning away from the piano. He’s taped the pages together, and he’s squinting at them as he painfully tries to press the right keys.

“Stop,” I say. “That’s an assault.” I rub my eyes. “What time is it?”

Jake does stop, thankfully, but when he turns, he’s smiling. “I’ll stop. . .if you play it for me.”

“No way.” I back toward my room.

“Alright. Have it your way.” He starts plonking down on the keys, missing a flat.

I cringe. “Stop. Please, stop.”

“Play it for me, Hornet. Please.”

I groan, but I decide anything’s better than being tortured.

He shoves over as soon as I get close, and he’s beaming. “Yay.”

I roll my eyes, but I start to play, not even bothering with the sheet music he never should have pulled out of the trash. I change a few things that I realized were wrong last night before drifting off.

“Ooh, I like that.” Jake’s bobbing his head. “And right here, what if you did this?” He hums a harmony, and it’s a little better than my first idea, but it’s clunky, so I clean up the bridge note.

“Or.” I play the new version.

“You’re a freaking genius.”

It’s a good thing I don’t need to see the keys, or I’d be in trouble every time he makes me roll my eyes. But it’s actually kind of fun, writing the song with him.

“What’s this for?” Jake asks. “It’s too long for a jingle—and don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s too good.”

I sigh, my fingers freezing. “I don’t know.”

There’s a knock at the door, which surprises us both. Other than our family, no one really even knows where our apartment is. We keep it that way on purpose—it’s why we have it all in my name. Gas. Power. Internet. Water. The lease. The media’s relentless with him. We even have two covered spaces for his flashy cars. He’s not here that often with all his filming, but when he is, we’re used to keeping to ourselves as much as possible.

“Are you expecting someone?” I ask.

He shakes his head, but he does eventually hop up and jog to the door.

I squeak. “I’m in pajamas. Hang on.” I barely duck behind my door before he swings the front door open, and I hear it.

A voice that I amnotexpecting.

“Elizabeth said you guys lived here,” Easton says.

My hands tremble. What’s he doing here? I press my ear to the door.

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