Imperfect Harmony (18 page)

John hummed his agreement. “Do you still write your own songs?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should try?”

Rhys’s immediate reaction was to say no, but he bit it back. He thought about John and his violin, about the courage it must have taken for him to work through his grief and claim back a part of his life that held so many memories but was so important to him. Perhaps it was time for Rhys to try and do the same.

“Yeah.” He turned in John’s arms, wanting more of him. Needing the comfort of his scent as he curled up against his hairy chest and breathed him in. “Maybe I will.”

They had a lazy evening of pizza in front of the TV and then went for round two back in bed once their meal had gone down.

They both lasted much longer that time, and when they turned the light off to sleep, Rhys’s arse felt pleasantly used and his muscles ached in places that hadn’t been worked in a while.

With John lying warm next to him and the darkness enfolding them, he felt good—better than good. It was as though life was giving him a second chance at happiness. It was only early days, of course, and they hadn’t talked about the future yet, but this seemed so right.

Hope settled in Rhys’s chest like a warm glow. He slept soundly, the dreamless sleep of the truly contented.

When Rhys finally made it home on Sunday evening after spending the day with John again, there was a note pushed through his door. His mum’s handwriting read,

Hello, stranger.

Hope you had a good weekend. When am I going to meet him?

xxx

Rhys grinned. His mum had been dropping hints all week, ever since he’d stayed over at John’s on Tuesday. She knew exactly how antisocial Rhys had been since moving back. He didn’t have any friends to hang out with, so claiming to be staying over with a friend was akin to announcing that he was getting laid.

He imagined introducing John to his mum and found it wasn’t as scary a prospect as he first thought. Sure, his mum might be a little wary of the age gap initially, but once she met John, Rhys was confident she’d understand why that didn’t matter to Rhys. They fitted together well, they had things in common, they cared about each other. That was what mattered.

He let himself in next door and found his mum watching TV. Loud rap music filtered down from upstairs, so Max was obviously in too.

“Hello?” his mum called from the living room.

Starry ran out to greet him, licking his hands and wagging her tail.

“Hey.” Rhys flopped down beside his mum where she had curled up on the sofa with her feet under a blanket. Starry put her head on his knee and looked up at him adoringly.

“How are you?” She paused the TV and turned to him.

“I’m good.” He tried to curb the grin that threatened to spread over his face.

“So, are you going to tell me where you’ve been all weekend?”

“With a friend.” Rhys lost the battle and beamed at her, his cheeks flushing hot.

His mum smiled. “It’s good to see you looking happy. Are you going to tell me about him?”

“He’s called John. He’s the guy from the choir I told you about—the pianist.”

His mum nodded. “I remember.” She paused, obviously expecting more.

“I’ve been seeing him for a little while, as friends at first, but now… well, it’s more than friends.”

“That’s good. And I meant what I said in the note. I’d really like to meet him, if he’s important to you.”

“He is.”

“Maybe he could come over for dinner sometime?”

“I’ll ask him.” Rhys looked down at Starry and petted her silky ears. It was easier to say the next part without meeting his mum’s eyes. “Okay, don’t freak out, but he is a little—well, actually quite a
lot
older than me.”

There was a silence, and when Rhys dared look up at his mum again, her face was perfectly calm, but her voice was a little strained when she asked, “How much older?”

“Well… he’s forty-two. So that makes him nineteen years older. But it’s my birthday in a few weeks, so he’ll only be eighteen years older again until November.” Rhys gave her a hopeful grin, trying to lighten the mood.

“Well, at least he’s a
few
years younger than me.” She sounded relieved. “Given that the average age of your choir is about sixty, it’s not as bad as I was expecting. Is it serious?”

And that was the question Rhys couldn’t answer—not for John anyway.

“I’m not sure yet, but I hope so.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

John felt like a stalker as he googled Rhys’s name.

After hearing Rhys play the song he’d written, John wanted to know more about his music career. He could have asked Rhys, of course. But it was obvious Rhys didn’t like talking about it, and John could sympathise with that. Talking about the past was difficult and painful; he understood Rhys’s desire to focus on the present instead.

So he typed Rhys’s name into the search bar and clicked.

There were a lot of results, and nearly all of them seemed to be relevant. Rhys Callington wasn’t a particularly common name, and Rhys obviously had quite an online presence once upon a time.

The images at the top were surprising. John had to look closely to see Rhys in the boy in the photos. His smile was the same, and his eyes, but the younger Rhys had long messy hair that fell in a peroxide-blond tangle around a gaunt face. He was much thinner and looked like someone who spent more time partying than sleeping.

There were listings of gigs with Rhys’s name, articles on blogs, posts on Tumblr and Twitter. There was a Facebook Group called “Fans of Rhys Callington” that was mostly inactive. But when John scrolled back through the posts, he found a link from about a year ago to some music blog. The post was titled “Whatever Happened to Rhys Callington?”

John clicked on the link and skimmed the article, pausing on a photo that showed Rhys with his arm around a dark-haired boy—Lyle, John presumed. John’s heart clenched with sadness as he studied Lyle’s smiling face.

The article outlined the details of Lyle’s death and documented how, after that tragedy, Rhys had disappeared—as much as anyone could disappear in this age of the Internet and social media. Rhys had deactivated his YouTube channel, SoundCloud account, Twitter profile, and his official Facebook page. The only accounts left were fan accounts.

John clicked through to a Tumblr where there were photos of Rhys, quotes from his song lyrics, and links to videos of him performing. John opened one. The recording was awful—grainy and with too much background noise—but the sound of Rhys’s voice still took John’s breath away.

Back on the Facebook page, he scrolled through the comments. Over a hundred people had replied.

I miss his music :(

Such a talent, gutted that he’s gone.

I heard he pulled out of a recording contract. He might have been huge.

Next big thing - and he threw it all away.

Is he okay, does anyone know?

Such a waste….

John closed his laptop and let his mental image of Rhys readjust. He’d seen Rhys’s talent, of course. It was evident even with the one song John had heard, and Rhys’s voice was beautiful. But he’d had no idea what Rhys had walked away from, how close he’d been to breaking into the music industry.

Since moving back to his hometown, Rhys had cut himself off from his old life completely as far as John could tell. He seemed to have no friends his own age. His life revolved around his family, his choir, his work in schools, and his weekly performances at Beech House—the only performing he allowed himself. It was as though he was afraid to shine too brightly.

After what had happened, John could understand it. There were enough parallels with his own experience. He could identify with the need to cut yourself off from a past that held too many memories—memories it hurt to study too closely.

Where John had cut himself off from music completely, Rhys had taken refuge in music written by others and had poured his energy into that while ignoring his own creativity.

Thanks to Rhys, John had found a way back to music. He hoped that maybe, eventually, Rhys would be ready to write and sing his own songs again.

The week passed in much the same way as the previous one. John didn’t see Rhys till Wednesday at choir, but then they arranged to get together on Thursday evening. Rhys stayed over and came back on Friday night, and they agreed to spend the weekend together again.

On Saturday morning, after a lazy, sex-filled lie-in followed by breakfast in bed, John drove Rhys home to borrow Starry for a couple of hours and to get a decent pair of shoes for walking in the woods.

Maggie was more than happy for John to take Billy out, especially after she saw the little dog’s reaction to the sight of Starry on the doorstep.

“I think he’s in love,” she said as Billy greeted Starry with delighted yaps and then fell onto his back, wagging his tail while Starry licked his face.

“He’s not the only one.” Rhys grinned.

They took the dogs across the playing fields and through the woods again. When the path was wide enough for them to walk side by side, Rhys took John’s hand. The simple gesture of togetherness made John’s heart thump harder. He glanced sideways at Rhys, who smiled and squeezed his hand. John smiled back.

In the afternoon they performed at Beech House, and later spent Saturday evening working on Rhys’s choral arrangement for “I Can See Clearly Now.” John helped him, singing parts and offering suggestions for how to manage the tricky middle section. By the end of the evening, Rhys had something he was almost happy with.

“I might start teaching it soon.” Rhys scribbled something else on his notes.

“I think the choir will like it,” John said.

Rhys looked up and smiled. “I hope so. It’s a great song.”

On Sunday morning, John woke to an empty bed. He blinked at the light coming through the curtains. He must have slept in, which was almost unheard of. Insomnia had plagued him since David’s death. He noticed he always slept better when Rhys was there, but it was still unusual for him to sleep so late.

He pulled on some clothes and went downstairs. The sound of a guitar and Rhys’s voice echoing, soft and sweet, drew him to the music room. He paused outside trying to work out what Rhys was playing, but the words were indistinct through the closed door and he didn’t recognise the tune. When he pushed the door open, Rhys stopped abruptly.

“Oh. Hey, you’re awake at last.” He put the guitar aside and closed a notebook that lay open in front of him.

“Yeah. What time is it?”

“No clue, but I’ve been awake for a couple of hours.”

“What were you singing?”

“Nothing. I was just messing around.”

John didn’t think it had sounded like messing around, but he didn’t want to press. If Rhys was writing again, John would give him space to do it. Instead he asked, “Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

“Want to go out for breakfast?”

“Sure.” Rhys’s face lit up. “Can we go somewhere that does pancakes?”

Rhys recommended a café-bar at the far end of the high street, called Spencer’s. John hadn’t been there before. Until he met Rhys, he’d hardly been out of his house since his mum died, except to work. He remembered the building as a rather dodgy-looking pub from his youth.

“Isn’t this the place that used to be the Red Lion?”

“Yeah, but it’s a bit different now.”

Rhys didn’t even bother to look at the menu when they took their seats. “The pancakes here are great. I’m going to get the American-style ones with bacon and syrup. With a large coffee.”

John wrinkled his nose. “Bacon and syrup sounds like a weird combination to me.”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

“I’ll try yours. But I’m sticking with the safer option of fruit and syrup with mine.”

Rhys went to the counter to place their order, and John studied the surroundings in more detail. It was relaxed in a slightly tatty way that made him feel as though he was in someone’s home rather than in a café. There was a large pinboard on the wall over their table, covered in posters and business cards advertising local events and services. A large red notice with bold black font caught John’s eye.

Open Mic Night here at Spencer’s.

Singers, songwriters, musicians, groups.

All Welcome

Come along and grab your moment in the spotlight!!!

Second Friday of every month.

When Rhys returned to his seat, John was still studying the poster.

“Did you know they do this here?” he asked Rhys.

“Huh?” Rhys followed his gaze. “Oh no. I’ve only been here for breakfast or lunch. I’ve never been in the evening. I knew they had live music sometimes, though.”

“Maybe we should come along next Friday?” John suggested.

“Yeah, we could, I guess.” Rhys frowned. “Do you mean to listen, or…?”

John shrugged. “We know plenty of things we could perform together if you wanted.” The shutters came down, and John knew he was pushing too much. Rhys wasn’t ready to emerge from his comfort zone. “But no worries if you don’t want to. I just thought it might be fun. I wouldn’t mind coming and listening, anyway.”

Rhys’s shoulders dropped as his tension eased. “Yeah, okay.” He gave John a quick smile. “We could do that.”

On the walk back to John’s house, Rhys’s phone chimed. He got it out to read the message.

“My mum wants to know if you’d like to come over for dinner tonight.”

John’s stomach plummeted and his palms started to sweat at the thought. He swallowed.

“She’s keen to meet you,” Rhys continued. “And she knows about the age gap, so it won’t be a surprise, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“Knowing about it and meeting me are two different things.”