Page 27 of Undertow

“She seems really interesting.”

I scan the space with appropriate awe. It doesn’t take much to muster that reaction, because thereissomething fascinating about this mix of sterility and art. Every item seems to be meticulously placed—almost like a staged magazine photo—and yet, slight pockets of individuality disrupt the severity.

A shelf of composition books draws my attention, and a rush of familiarity has my blood pounding harder as I cross toward it.

“Journals?” I ask, waving at the row of worn notebooks.

By her smile, I’m about to get rocked again. “This is what I wanted to show you.”

She moves beside me and plucks one off the shelf. A soft expression lingers on her face as she flips through it, clearly getting lost in old memories.

“My collection,” she says, almost reverently.

She hands the open book to me, and I glance down to see a list of what looks like song titles with comments after them. Variations in the ink and lettering indicate these were written at different times. A closer examination reveals what appear to be annotations with time references.

“All We Ever Needed” has “0:41” jotted beside it with a note that says, “the run onheart.”

“Your song scavenging,” I say reverently, scanning the rest of the page.

I feel her excitement beside me, her joy at finding a confidant. I’m not even acting right now. I scan the line of books to the end of the row. There must be at least a dozen of them.

“You’ve collected this many pieces of songs?” I hear the wonder in my voice, but she doesn’t know it has nothing to do with the collection and everything to do with her. I’ve never met someone who micro-tunes beauty like I do. For me, it’s words. How just the tiniest phrase can take my breath away with its surprising imagery or syntax. I once read a book that used the phrase “insignificant harmony” to describe scattered thoughts, and it took me a week to get over it. I ended up tattooing it on my forearm. Left one, beside the wolf fangs cutting into my skin.

“I know it’s weird.”

“Weird? It’s amazing,” I say, paging through the rest of the book. “Can I see the others?”

Her smile is genuine as she nods. Like me, she’s probably not used to other minds who understand her “weird.”

“Have you ever done anything with this?” I ask.

“Like what?”

I shrug. “Put it in a database and publish it online or something. There are probably a lot of people who’d love to share this with you.”

“You think? Is that what you do with your writing?”

She didn’t mean it as a slap, but her sincere question stings just the same.

“No,” I mumble, returning the book to its place. I love that ithasa place. My words are an entire symphony of insignificant harmonies. They have to be. Hoarded and hidden where no one can ever find them.

“You okay?” she asks, concern etched in her expression.

“What? Yeah, of course.” I force a smile and brush my fingers over another black spine. This conversation is getting too dangerous. Thismoment.

A knock startles us out of our unexpected intimacy, and we snap our attention toward the door. Adrian sticks his head through the opening.

“There you are.” Surprise flashes on his face before he covers it up. “Mama H wants to talk to us.”

It’s not an option, and I sense Julia’s tension beside me.

“All of us?”

They exchange a grave look, and Adrian nods. “Yep. Bring your new boyfriend.” His tone is light and teasing, but it doesn’t feel that way in the stiff energy of the room.

“Hilarious.” Julia’s smile is forced when she turns to me. “You up for a quick chat?”

As if there could be any answer besides “yes.”

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