Page 185 of The Havenport Collection

Sylvie

T onight was the night. I had to open myself to Wyatt. Make myself vulnerable. There was no other option. My feelings for him were overwhelming.

He had come over with pizza, and we had talked for hours.

“Wyatt,” I said, running my fingers through his hair, “can I play you some of my music?”

His smile stretched across his face. “I would love that.”

I was scared. But I wanted to share this part of myself with Wyatt. It was a part I kept tightly guarded, but I wanted him to know all of me.

So we headed down to the garage, and I sat down at my piano and played. And then I played some more. I tuned my guitar and played some early stuff and then some of my works in progress.

My songs exposed my deepest darkest secrets. My insecurities, my mistakes, and the crushing pain of the rejection I had experienced early in my career. I was laid bare, exposed and defenseless.

Wyatt sat, mesmerized, coming over to kiss me after every song. He asked questions about my inspiration, my choices, and my writing process.

I had never felt so seen.

He wrapped me in his strong arms. “I’m really proud of you, Sylvie. It makes me feel so special that you chose to share these gifts with me.”

I was overwhelmed. Wyatt had seen every dark, ugly, and unsuccessful part of me. And he didn’t care; if anything he wanted me even more. I was dizzy with love and lust for this man.

“Take me to bed, Wyatt.”

Leaving Wyatt snuggled in my bed, I got up and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. I couldn’t sleep. Emotions were swirling around in my head, and I couldn’t make sense of them. Wyatt had made me feel so safe and so cherished, but now confusion and doubt took over.

I knew I had to work through it.

So I quietly closed the apartment door and headed down to the garage and sat at my piano. I played some scales to give my fingers something to do while I worked out what I needed.

Then I started to play, clunking around a bit, shifting between chords and keys until I landed on the right feel.

This was how I worked through things, how I processed my emotions. When I hit my breaking point I sat down and wrote music. It helped me organize my thoughts into notes and beats, measures, and phrases.

It was here, seated at my piano, that I could think. Actually think.

And so I played. After a while I settled on a basic melody and grabbed my notepad, scribbling words and phrases as I played the same notes over and over again.

I heard the door open and stairs creak.

“Sylvie?”

“I’m downstairs.”

Wyatt came downstairs, wearing his sweatpants and an old T-shirt. He looked so yummy, his hair all mussed and his face sleepy.

“I woke up and couldn’t find you. I was worried.”

“I’m sorry. I was feeling some things. So I came down here.”

He nodded, as if it were totally normal to get up in the middle of the night and play the piano. “To play?”

“To write.”

“How’s it going?”

My fingers danced across the keyboard, playing the melody I had worked out. “Okay so far. But I’m a bit stuck.” I played the notes I had hastily scribbled, watching his face for his reaction.

“I like it. It’s sort of haunting but also has a hopeful feel.”

“Thanks. I wrote it in D minor; Paul McCartney said it’s the key that makes all the girls cry.”

“Sir Paul would certainly know, wouldn’t he?”

“That is true.”

“Can I help you get unstuck? Maybe make some coffee?”

I beamed at him. It was the middle of the night, and we both had to work the next day, but here he was, offering to make coffee and stay up all night with me writing a song. How could I not be in love with this man?

He placed two steaming mugs down on the table next to the piano and sat next to me on the bench, pulling me close and kissing the top of my head.

“So what are you stuck on?”

“The lyrics.”

“Let’s get to work. Show me what you have so far.”

“The song is about being at a crossroads. The uncertainty of our choices and how to find the right path.” I played the melody again and showed him what I had scribbled down.

Regret. Remorse. No answers. No guidance.

Worries that crash over me. The tides of indecision moving in and out.

Wyatt sat and listened and made suggestions. He listened to me rant and hugged me when I cried. He saw all the ugliness of my process, the self-loathing, the doubt, and the small moments of triumph.

“Have you thought about extending the seashell analogy?”

“In the second verse?”

“Yes. You talk about their beauty and the cycle of life. But what about how they live on in a different form? The sand on the beaches is made up of shells the ocean has crushed, ground up over millennia. Tiny particles from formerly living organisms.”

I got up and paced around, considering his suggestion. “Yes. The shell represents sadness and loss but also hope and renewal.” I threw my arms around him, burying my face in his neck. “How are you so fucking perfect, Wyatt?” I asked, tears in my eyes.

“I’m not perfect, Sylvie. Maybe I’m just perfect for you.”

And I kissed him. With a growl, he picked me up, cradling my body against his warm, thick chest. I felt his heartbeat, strong and solid, beneath me as he carried me back up to bed.

I had no idea how the song would end, or how things between us would end. But in this moment, all I wanted was to be in his arms.