Page 5 of Heartstring

“Come on, it’s a good nickname.”

He grumbles, and I laugh, feeling a little lighter. “Let’s eat because, in case it wasn’t clear when you walked in, my first dinner was a disaster, and you still need to tell me what you’re doing here.”

Since we’re both eating sandwiches, I grab two beers from the stash he brought with him, and head over to the living room, turning the TV onto a random show about home decoration gone wrong, with the sound all the way down.

“You still watch these shows?” Seymour asks.

“They’re great, although I’ll admit that the constantwowandoh my goodnesscan get a little tiring, but that’s not why I watch the show.” I take a bite of my sandwich, which is perfect as always. Hella, the chef, is Julius’s half-sister. While he never left Stillwater and runs his coffee shop, Bittersweet, on Main Street, she did a culinary tour of the world and is now bringing the people of Stillwater the best and most varied takeout menu on the East Coast.

“Why do you watch it?” Seymour asks.

I pause, unsure if I should tell the truth even though if anyone would understand, it’s Seymour. After all, he walked in wearing his brother’s winter coat.

“It was his favorite show.” I put my sandwich down on the plate. The few bites I’ve taken feel heavy on my stomach.

Seymour takes my hand. His is soft, with long fingers and perfect nails. Just like Porter’s. “It’s been four years, Ty.”

“Have you stopped missing him?”

He smiles. “I will never stop missing him, but I also know he would have wanted me…us…to get on with our lives. He was clear about that.”

“Can you tell me you moved out of the tiny box you two used to rent when you followed him to college?”

Seymour goes quiet. He has money. Plenty of it. His family, while incredibly down to earth, is also very wealthy.

When Porter went to college, his parents cut his allowance and made him get a job. They did the same to Seymour. Like every other student, they appreciated the value of cheap beer, spending nights talking shit with friends, and studying for exams fueled by coffee and determination to succeed.

Even though Porter had already graduated, Seymour followed in the steps of his big brother. They appreciated the small things in life. And more than most people, they understood the importance of making your own way.

He could live in a ten-bedroom mansion instead of the two-bedroom closet he lives in, but the brothers became so attached to their tiny apartment that Porter didn’t move out until we got married. Seymour still lives there, in Royal Oaks, a few miles away from Port Haven.

I always wondered how our paths never crossed growing up and if my life would have been different if it had.

“It’s complicated, Ty,” he says.

“It’s not complicated. You can’t tell me to move on if you’re not ready to do it too.”

He takes a bite of his sandwich and steals a couple of fries.

“Daisy sent me.”

I stop with the sandwich halfway to my mouth.

“Because I’m not taking her calls?”

“Not just that. But since you mention, why aren’t you taking her calls?”

I sigh. “Because she doesn’t want me to write songs for the next big boy band or solo artist. She wants me to record.”

“And you prefer to make someone else into the next big musical star instead of taking credit for the amazing talent you have for songwriting.”

I know what he’s trying to say. I’ve been hearing it for years. First from my dad and then from my husband. It’s no secret my agent has always pushed me to perform my own music, but Porter knew why I couldn’t.

You should be the one up there, baby. That’s your song. That’s your award,Porter would say every time any awards ceremony was on TV and one of my songs was nominated. He didn’t like my reasoning, but he understood.

Seymour knows it too, but he’s less understanding.

“You know why,” I say.