Imperfect Harmony (23 page)

“I wasn’t expecting the conversation to go like this.” The hurt in Rhys’s voice pierced John like a blade.

“I wish I didn’t feel this way. I wish I could be as sure as you.” John said honestly. He envied Rhys his bravery, his faith in what they had being enough. But he couldn’t share it… not yet.

“I wish you could too.” Rhys lifted a hand and dashed away a tear.

“I’m sorry.” John’s heart hurt. He wanted to make it better, but he didn’t know how.

“Okay. I’m going to go home. I think we both need some space to think.”

Rhys got up and John didn’t try to stop him. He didn’t think he could say anything else tonight without making it worse. What was the point of talking around in circles, each word digging a deeper hole? Better to take a break and regroup when he wasn’t reeling from the shock of what had happened.

“I’m sorry,” John said again, uselessly.

He followed Rhys to the front door, watching as Rhys sat on the bottom step to put on his shoes and then pulled on his coat, zipping it up to his chin. He tugged a beanie down, covering the blue of his hair, and finally met John’s gaze again. His expression was determined, although his eyes were damp.

“I’m not giving up on us. Not unless you tell me it’s over. Think about what I said, and call me when you’re ready to talk more, or if anything changes for you.”

John nodded. “Okay.” He stepped forward and opened his arms. “Can I?”

“Of course you can, you idiot.” Rhys moved into his embrace, burying his face in John’s shoulder for an all-too-brief moment as they hugged each other hard.

John closed his eyes, fighting back the rising tightness in his chest that threatened to break out in a sob.

Rhys drew away. John let him go.

John closed the door softly behind him. The house was empty and silent. Suddenly overcome with exhaustion, John turned off the lights downstairs and made his way up to bed. He brushed his teeth, staring at his reflection as though it was a stranger.

What have you done? Why did you push him away?

It was only when he turned out his light and lay in the cold, lonely darkness of his bed that the tears came. He cried until he was drained—raw sobs that made his head ache and his throat hurt. After a while he forgot why he was crying. Old grief mingled with the newer, fresher pain of what had happened tonight. He cried for his father, his mother, for David, for all the people he’d lost.

At some point, finally, he slept.

He dreamed he was climbing a steep mountain path that was rocky and perilous. Mist came down, cold and damp, and the path grew steeper, morphing into something more like a sheer stone wall than a path. But still John kept going. He knew something good was waiting at the top, although in the dream he wasn’t sure what it was. The climb was impossible. There was nothing to step onto, nothing to pull himself up with.

“I can’t.” John groaned in frustration, straining to reach a ledge of rock with his fingertips.

“Here.” A voice from below made John look down.

“David, is that you?”

“Yes. Let me help you.” David made a step with his hands and gave John a leg-up. “There, you can reach now.”

John closed his fingers over the hold, hesitating. “Are you coming too?”

“No.” David smiled reassuringly. “But go. It’s okay.”

He pushed and John hauled himself up. His head broke clear of the mist and into sunshine.

He’d reached the summit.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Rhys half-woke, and for a brief moment he stretched, warm and comfortable. He rolled over, trying to slip back into sleep.

Then he realised with a cold, unpleasant lurch of his stomach that he was in his own bed, alone, and he remembered what had happened the night before. He drew in a shaky breath, hollow emptiness expanding in his chest.

A glance at the clock told him it was late—nearly eleven. But he hadn’t gone to bed until five and had lain awake until it started to get light outside. He ran his thumb over the tips of his calloused fingers. They ached from hours of playing last night as he’d poured all his frustrated hurt into working on his song again. Finally, at half four in the morning, he’d finished it. But he had nobody to celebrate his success with, nobody to play it to. Maybe he could test it out on his gran at Beech House that afternoon.

Fuck
.

Last night, Rhys had forgotten about Beech House, and John hadn’t mentioned it. The mood Rhys was in today, it would be easier for him if John didn’t come—not unless he’d changed his mind since last night.

Maybe Rhys should just cancel it altogether? He was feeling like shit, after all, but his gran would be disappointed if he didn’t show.

Before he had time to weigh up the pros and cons, Rhys reached for his phone from the bedside table and sent John a text.

You don’t need to come to Beech House today. I’ll do it on my own
.

He turned his phone off without waiting for a reply.

His stomach growled, empty and aching. Heaving himself out of bed, Rhys made his way down to the kitchen, his body heavy and exhausted from emotion and lack of sleep. He couldn’t face food, but he made some tea and loaded it with sugar.

He sat at the table with the scattered pieces of paper that held the lyrics and chord patterns for his song.

The words blurred and merged as tears filled his eyes. Tears he’d kept in last night when he’d directed all his energy into creativity. He’d held his emotions at bay, focusing them into the words on the page, the music at his fingertips, and the melody he sang. The title was underlined with a fierce line of ink: “Second Chances.”

Rhys sighed, feeling powerless. He wasn’t ready to give up on this second chance at happiness but there was nothing more he could do. He’d told John how he felt; he’d laid himself open. He might as well have cut his heart out and handed it to John for safekeeping. Perhaps he had? Maybe that was why his chest felt so hollow? Despite himself, Rhys’s lips curved at his own melodrama. Maybe he could use that metaphor in another song.

When he finished his tea, with nothing else to do, Rhys crawled back into bed, set his alarm, pulled the covers over his head, and tried to catch up on some sleep before it was time to go to Beech House.

He might have dozed fitfully for a while, but he didn’t feel refreshed when his alarm pulled him out of restless sleep. He showered, dressed, and packed up his things in a trance-like state, focused on getting through the next couple of hours so he could come back and wallow in his misery again. Maybe he should buy chocolate on the way home, or ice cream… or whatever it was you were supposed to drown your sorrows in when you felt like shit and didn’t want to use alcohol to numb it.

In the connecting corridor, he put his guitar on his back and was attaching the pannier to his bike when the door to the main house opened.

“Oh, it’s you.” His mum’s eyes widened as she saw him. “I thought you were spending the night at John’s?”

“So did I.” Rhys didn’t try to hide the bitterness in his tone. “Sorry, Mum. I don’t have time to talk about it now. I need to get over to Beech House.”

Her face had fallen. She was about to say something sympathetic, and he didn’t want to hear it. He still hadn’t let out the storm of tears that were brewing inside, but he had himself under control at the moment. The smallest hint of kindness could make him fall apart.

“Okay.” There was understanding in her eyes.

Rhys had always been like this. Even as a small child he’d withdrawn into himself when he was unhappy, preferring to lick his own wounds to the comfort of others.

She smiled sadly. “You know where I am if you want to talk later.”

He gave a curt nod. “Thanks. Okay. I’ve got to go.”

“Take care.”

She stood watching as he wheeled his bike out, and he rode away without saying another word.

Rhys cycled faster than usual, pushing himself until his muscles burned and his lungs ached. It was cold and dry, the blue sky and glorious sunshine in stark contrast to his black mood.

When he arrived at Beech House, he found the residents assembled as usual, waiting expectantly. Some of them greeted him with smiles and nods.

“Haven’t you got your friend with you today?” one of the old ladies asked.

“No, I’m afraid it’s just me this afternoon,” Rhys said as cheerfully as he could manage. “John couldn’t make it.”

He looked around for Mrs Pickering, knowing she’d be disappointed not to have her pianist there, but he couldn’t see her. His eyes lit on his gran, and he approached her to stoop and give her his usual hug and kiss on the cheek in greeting. “No Mrs P this afternoon?” He asked.

She shook her head, and the expression on her face told him everything he needed to know even before she spoke. “I’m sorry, dear. She passed last week.”

“Oh.” The bottom dropped out of his chest. For a crazy moment, he swayed on his feet and his vision blackened at the edges.

“It was very quick. A stroke, they said… happened last Sunday.”

The news shouldn’t be so shocking. She must have been in her late eighties, after all. But today it was a final blow that left him reeling when he was already vulnerable.

“Rhys.” The grip of his gran’s hand brought him back to the room. The room full of people waiting for him to pull himself together and entertain them. “Sit down, love. Are you okay?” She patted his hand.

“Yeah, sorry. I just…. It’s just a shock. And I think I cycled here a bit too fast on an empty stomach. But I’m fine, really.” He realised he hadn’t eaten at all today.

“Are you sure you don’t want to sit down for a minute?”

“No. It’s okay. I’m ready to start. Don’t want to keep my fans waiting.” He managed a small smile.

Just then, a familiar voice behind him said, “Sorry I’m late.”

Rhys turned to see John as he came through the door, violin case in one hand and his music tucked under his arm.

Rhys’s heart leapt at the sight of him, hopeful and foolish. He squashed it down fast. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

John’s brow furrowed in confusion. He’d reached Rhys now. “I never said I wasn’t.”

“Didn’t you get my text?”

“Yes, but didn’t you get my reply?”

“Never mind,” Rhys muttered with an irritated headshake, suddenly realising this was playing out in front of their audience. An audience who was expecting some nice jolly songs rather than something akin to a Shakespearian tragedy—or maybe a comedy of errors, depending on how it ended. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

They ran through their usual songs. Focused on the music, Rhys managed to work on autopilot. Where normally he found joy in the act of singing and playing, today it was a chore to complete, an obstacle to overcome. Blending his voice in harmony with John’s was almost unbearable. The irony wasn’t lost on him that as performers they complimented each other perfectly. There was no doubt or hesitation; they worked seamlessly together and created something beautiful. If only their relationship could be so easy.

It wasn’t until John turned the pages to “You Make Me Feel So Young” that Rhys realised John hadn’t noticed Mrs P’s absence.

“Let’s skip that one today.”

John frowned but didn’t argue. “Okay.” He glanced around the room then, scanning for Mrs Pickering and not finding her. His mouth turned down at the corners and the lines on his brow deepened. He raised his eyebrows in unspoken question.

Rhys shook his head. He couldn’t explain now, not if he was going to sing again.

John turned a few more pages. “How about this one to finish, then?”

Rhys nodded. “Sure.”

As soon as they finished, John came up to Rhys as he was putting his guitar away. “What happened to Mrs Pickering?”

“She died last Sunday. A stroke, Gran said.”

John’s face softened. “I’m sorry. I know you were fond of her.”

The sympathy in John’s voice was more than Rhys could bear. “Yeah. Thanks,” he managed around the lump in his throat.

He turned away and went to find his gran. “I’m sorry, Gran, but I can’t hang around today. I have to be somewhere.”

Anywhere rather than here, with John and his smile and his sympathy
.

“Okay, dear.”

Rhys hugged her goodbye, then hefted his guitar onto his back and made for the door.

John intercepted him. “Are you leaving already?”

“Yes.” Rhys was close to breaking point now. All the frustration, sadness, and anger of the past twenty-four hours were peaking in a dull ache, like a fist twisting in his chest. He pleaded with his eyes for John to understand, to let him go. He didn’t want to talk to anyone right now.

John seemed to get it because he stepped aside. But then one of the carers approached them—Hilary, a cheerful lady who always worked there on Saturdays. “Oh, Rhys and John. Before you leave… I need to ask you a favour. Did you hear that Mrs Pickering passed this week? Very sad. She was such a lovely lady. Anyway, her daughter asked whether you would get in touch with her.” She held out a piece of paper. “If you’re agreeable, they’d like you to sing at her funeral—that song she loved so much. It’s on Friday afternoon.”

Rhys took the piece of paper. There was no way he could refuse. “Um, yeah… yeah, of course. I mean, if that’s all right with you?” He looked at John, who nodded.

“Yes. I can take the time off work. It would be an honour.”

Hilary smiled. “Her daughter will be so pleased. Thanks. Okay, I’ll see you next week.” She seemed oblivious to the tension bristling between them.

“Bye,” Rhys managed, before finally escaping into the corridor. John was on his heels, but Rhys ignored him. They walked in silence until they were out in the car park. Rhys went to unlock his bike and flinched when John reached out and put a hand on his arm.

“Rhys,” he said quietly.

“What?” Rhys wheeled to face him. “What do you want?”

“I… I’m sorry. I didn’t know you didn’t want me here today. You didn’t reply when I said that I wanted to come.”

“I’d turned my phone off.” Rhys’s arms hung limply by his side. He had no energy left for any of this.