Page 34 of Concerted Chaos

“We saw each other as often as we were able. There’s a guest room in our house that we still refer to as Jace’s. He used to text all the time. Sometimes I still check my phone, looking for new messages. I haven’t adapted to his absence yet.” Her voice takes on a dreamy quality as she speaks, and the ghost of a smile drifts across her face. “I miss him every single day. But it was just never the right time for us.”

“I thought they spent an entire day with you. You’d think they’d get some better quotes. Didn’t my publicist give you some tips?” Powell expresses the same annoyance I felt when I read the preliminary draft of the article.

“She gave me the ‘never the right time’ line. I thought that was pretty good.” I don’t mean to be so defensive, but where was Powell while I was doing the interview? He should have been here to help out. He’s much better at acting cool and suave than I am. I’m annoyed at the way the interviewer makes me sound like a two-dimensional character who exists only to sigh sadly about lost love. But it’s better than contradicting Jace’s will. I’d rather be portrayed as heartbroken than heartless.

“And now that’s over with, what’s your next step? With Jace’s music, I mean?” Powell is the billionth person to ask, but I don’t mind the question coming from him. There are so many factors to consider. I want to do Jace’s memory justice. The writer quotes me as saying “I need to find the right voice to share Jace’s words with the world.” But the truth is, I have no idea how to go about handling this. Numerous musicians’ agents keep leaving me messages, but I haven’t returned any of their calls.

“Do you want to sing them?” Wouldn’t that be the easiest solution?

The same puppy dog eyes he uses on me do not work on my brother. He shakes his head.

“Nope. I only sing my own songs now. That’s the joy of not being in a group anymore.” Powell’s smugness is well deserved. The fact is, he’s talented. And he writes catchy music. It’s not deep and soulful, but he has a gift for creating choruses that stick in your head forever. One heart, two hearts, never beat apart gets stuck in my head at the most inopportune moments. The song isn’t even good, but for some reason it’s an earworm.

“Your music is kind of ... juvenile and cheesy,” I inform him. “Jace was profound and meaningful. His songs are above your skill level anyway.”

Powell doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he laughs at me. “My songs pay your salary. Tell you what, I’ll record one as a tribute. I’ll release it as a single, and all the profits can go to Jace’s foundation. That ought to get people off your back for a little while.”

I love my brother.

“Thank you!” I give him a hug, almost making him drop the magazine.

“No problem. I suppose it’s the right time to do something like this.” He waves the pages directly in my face. “The right time for us.”

“They say that a dozen times. Shoddy writing.”

“I like the concept though. The idea of the pieces having to fall into place. Finding the right time.” He closes his eyes and begins to hum. I recognize his expression: this conversation is over. I’ve lost my brother. I find the nearest legal pad—he keeps them scattered throughout the house in case of a lyrical emergency—and set it down in front of him. Then I walk away. He’s gone into writing mode. He’ll emerge later with either a new hit or a bunch of drivel. Or, honestly, it could be both.

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