Page 19 of Sounds Like Love

My eyes burned, and my jaw clenched, and I felt that knot in my chest pulling, pulling, picking at itself, itching to unravel, and I just wanted—

I wanted someone to show me how to get through this, how to survive, how to go on. I just needed someone, anyone, to—

Listen—

A sob caught in my throat.

“I can hear you.”

I froze. The voice was gravelly and deep—and not mine. I jumped to my feet, the piano bench’s legs scraping against the floor. The redness in my eyes felt heavy. I wiped them quickly with the back of my hand. My head felt full of sand. “Who said that?”

My voice echoed in the empty music hall.

“Hello?” I called, louder.

“Who’s there?”the voice replied.

I spun around the stage, but there was no one. “What the …”

“Hello?”

“We’re closed,” I informed. I rubbed my nose with my hand and steeled myself.Get it together, Jo.“You can’t be here, you know.”

“I’m not—I don’t think you understand. You can hear me?”

My head was swimming, because that was such a strange question. OfcourseI could hear him? Logically I knew that my parents had run-ins with trespassers,but they were usually teenagers who dared each other to break in, and they hadn’t in years. “We’ve been closed for an hour, dude. Lemme show you to the door.”

“I don’t think that’ll help.”

“Why … ?”

“Because I—I think you’re in my head.”

That made me pause. Really take it in. Then a laugh bubbled up in my throat. “Oh my god, I’mwaytoo drunk. I’ve cracked. I’m so stressed I’m hearing voices. That’s how you know you’re done for the night.” I grabbed my bottle of whiskey and glass, and sloughed back to the bar. This was ridiculous. I was talking to myself—I knew I was. My voice echoed buthisdidn’t. I placed the bottle back on the shelf and made sure the label faced out like Dad always did. “I’m too old for imaginary friends.”

“I’m not imaginary,”he said, sounding more than a little offended.“You’reimaginary.”

I finished off the last bit of drink I had and abandoned the glass on the bar counter.

“I’d have better hair if I was,”

I replied. It was time to go home.

Chapter7(But) I’ve (Still) Got (Some) Sand in My Shoes

MY PARENTS LIVEDin a little blue house by the sea. It’d been Grandma Lark’s before it was Dad’s, and then someday I guessed it’d be mine. It was a weird little house, with gnomes hidden in the bushes and a garden that could never grow roses no matter how hard Dad tried. My room was up the stairs at the end of the hallway, and it hadn’t changed an inch since I’d moved out for college, so at least I knew when I stumbled home that night exactly where my bed would be.

Mom sat down beside me in the breakfast nook the next morning, sliding me a strong cup of coffee. “Tough night?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

While a lot of last night was a blur, I remembered the highlights. Mainly, the Revelry closing. My parents retiring. Them dropping the newsrightbefore the show. I wanted to ask her then and there—why? Why close it, why not ask the rest of us first?But … it wasn’t the time to ask. My head throbbed with a hangover, and my knees were definitely bruised.

“Ugh,” I groaned, and blew on the coffee. Later, I promised myself. I’d ask her about it later. “When did I get home last night?”

“Around two,” she replied. “You scared the shit out of your dad and me.”

“Oh no, what did I do?”

“You decided to crawl up the stairs because ‘your kneeckles were too wobbly.’”

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