Page 48 of The Deviation
She listens for a little longer before asking, “Can I hear them?”
My nose wrinkles. “I don’t sing.”
“Please?” She’s perched on the edge of the cushion now. “It’s just me. I promise not to judge.”
I take a deep breath, my hands stilling as I look at her. Leaning over the guitar, I lift the mug to take a sip of tea and then clear my throat. “You asked for it,” I say, getting back into position.
“I did.” Her nod is solemn. “Do your worst.”
With a chuckle, I restart the song, lingering over the introduction before sliding into the first verse. My voice is rough, more talking than singing. It’s not that acan’thold a tune, but I’ll never be anybody’s idea of good. My music has always come from my fingers, rather than my vocal cords. But for her, I give it a try.
I sing about my struggles with the destiny assigned to me. About trying to fit my fire inside a box, only to watch it burn. The man I am and the man I was born to be have never felt more disparate, torn asunder by desire and loyalty. It scares me, to wonder if my failures will leave me an outcast. With no destiny to restrain me. No heart to guide me. I would be all alone. Lost, somewhere, in the desolation of the middle ground.
When the final notes fade, I look over at Hannah. Her lips are pressed together in a hard line. Hands clutched in her lap. And her eyes, there’s a bleakness to them. “You didn’t like it?”
She blinks, her gaze snapping to mine. “No. I mean, I did,” she pauses to swallow, “like it.”
I tilt my head, waiting.
“It’s about not being… you know, good enough or whatever.”
Nodding, I allow my fingers to move. The chorus filters quietly into the room. “Expectations can be heavy, sometimes. Especially when you try. You try so hard to be everything you’re supposed to be.” I watch my fingers as they move over the strings. “It can be hard to fail.”
Her nod is visible in my periphery. “I get that. Knowing people want something you don’t know how to give?”
“And they keep jamming you into that mould, hoping one day you’ll change enough to fit but you can’t—” I break off, my hands stilling. This is inappropriate. Calum’s sister or not, I just met this woman. Clearly, I’ve spent too long buried under the weight of this song.
“Or they give up on you.” The tremulous words reach out, and I lift my head to meet her gaze, but her focus is fixed elsewhere. “I mean, that’s what people do sometimes, when you cause too much trouble, or you’re too much of a bitch and they can’t be bothered dealing with your bullshit. They give up on you. They leave.”
We needed a fresh start. It’s just me and Hannah versus the world. She likes to know where I am.
Snippets of conversation with Calum piece together and my stomach pitches. Did their parents leave them? When? Why? And how did I not know this?
Cal never talks about his parents, or his childhood. Not even in passing. I’d noticed. Of course, I had. But I’d never had the opportunity to ask him about it. There hadn’t been enough timein those first chaotic meetings to have those conversations, and then… after. So much of my energy has been spent fighting my attraction to him. I’ve been scared to get too close, for fear of what else I might reach for.
“Could I maybe…” Hannah’s quiet words break into my brooding, “try something?”
Surprise lifts my eyebrows, but I give her a hint of smile. “Have at it.”
“Okay.” She darts out of her chair, returning with the second guitar. “Maybe…” She plays the opening chords, stumbles, stops to take a deep breath. “I’m rusty,” she admits, her cheeks flushing.
I nod my encouragement. “Take your time.”
Her playing smooths out, quickly. Within minutes she’s playing the melody without a hitch. Then she begins to sing.
Her voice is soft at first, a little husky, as she offers my lyrics back to me—but not exactly. There’s a change in the middle of the first verse, then another at the end. The new words tie together perfectly, and my mouth drops open. Anxious eyes glance my way, and I nod again. “Nice.”
She gains momentum as she heads into the chorus, and I lift a hand to cover my slackened jaw as she belts out the last few lines, coming to a stop there. Her eyes are bright and she’s a little breathless from the sudden burst of music. “Sorry,” she mutters, sneaking a peek in my direction. “I got a bit carried away.”
“I’m so glad you promised not to judge my singing,” I tease, grinning at her. “She with the voice of a freaking angel.”
Her eyes roll, but those pale cheeks flood with colour. “You’re just being nice.”
“I’m really not. You’ve got a banger set of pipes on you, girl.”
“Ugh, stop.” Her hands cover her face as it turns redder, but she’s laughing with me. I can see the adrenaline pumping through her, a side effect of the music. That shit is addictive.It’s one of the things that keeps every musician coming back for more.
“I’ll stop, I promise, but you are freaking amazing.” She peeks out from behind her hands, and I ask, “Contralto?”