Tone Deaf(47)

Cuddles lets out another whine, but I don’t hear anything else as I head toward the couches. The TV is flicked on, with no volume coming out of the sound system and subtitles flitting past on the bottom of the screen. Ali has changed the channel away from the news station, so now it’s tuned to some boring cooking show.

She’s curled up on the couch, her head tucked close to her knees. She breathes softly, and I watch her chest rise and fall for a long moment, making sure she’s not hyperventilating like she was last night. I cringe as I think of her nightmare; her expression had looked so freaking terrified. How could I not have stayed close to her afterward? I mean, maybe the whole cuddling thing wasn’t necessary, but it’s not like I could have left her.

I back up a few steps, figuring it’s best to leave Ali alone so she can rest. Besides, Cuddles needs a walk, and it’s not like she can go out by herself.

As I leave the living area, I glance back one more time at Ali. She shifts slightly in her sleep, letting out a tiny whimper, and the sound is like a shard of glass trapped in my chest. Is she having another nightmare? Maybe I should wake her up. I don’t want her to have a freak-out episode while I’m gone.

I walk over to her, but as I reach out to shake her shoulder, I notice the notebook. My notebook. I let out a loud curse as I see it sitting on the armrest next to Ali’s head. It’s open, and I didn’t leave it that way.

No one reads my notebook. Ever. Never, never, ever.

I snatch up the notebook, holding it protectively against my chest and wishing it would stanch the pain blooming there. It feels like a part of me has been ripped away and destroyed. That song was mine. Mine. I swore not to share it until it was perfect, and it was so close.

Now it’s ruined.

Then I notice the pen marks scratched across the page. What was she thinking? Doodling in my notebook, on the same page I was writing my almost-complete lyrics? That’s just wrong.

I peer down at the notebook, wondering what the hell could be so important that Ali felt the need to draw it on my lyrics. What I see . . . they’re not doodles. They’re letters and words, musical notes and lyrics. I blink a few times, wondering if maybe I wrote this last night and just don’t remember doing it. But, no, the handwriting is curly and neat, the cute sort that belongs to a girl. It’s the first half of my song, but it’s definitely not my handwriting.

I think back to what she told me when I first met her: “I used to play.” I’d just assumed she was messing around, but she must have been telling the truth.

I shake my head and hesitantly trail my finger down the blue lines of the notebook, reading the song our words have combined to create:

Close Your Eyes

When clarity’s gone and logic is done and love flees out the doorway,

When kisses hurt and your heart is cursed and so carelessly cast away,

When life’s tumbling down, down, down,

And nothing’s there when you look up,

Except the innocence you let life corrupt.

Just close your eyes,

Feel my hand in yours and know you’re alive,

Just close your eyes,

Feel my lips on yours and know you’ll survive,

Oh, close your eyes,

And in the darkness of the hour,

Know that I’ll be here forever,

Forever yours,

I’ll never go.

I’m not sure how long I stand there staring down at the notebook, reading her lyrics over and over again. In my head, I hear the notes she’s neatly written above the words, and they flow together seamlessly. They’re complex but effortless, in a haunting sort of way. Ali has only written adjustments for the beginning half of the lyrics, but it still feels like the closest my song has ever been to completion.

I glance around the room, looking for my guitar. I’m desperate to try out these lyrics, so I can see if they’re as good as they sound in my head. I hear a slight rustling and look down to find Ali peering sleepily up at me. Her eyes grow wide as she sees the notebook in my hand, and she looks like a kid with her hand caught in a cookie jar. She blushes, making her freckles pop.

“Hey,” she signs uncertainly.

I set down the notebook next to her and sign back, “Hey. I read your adjustments.”

She looks down and purses her lips. “Sorry. I really didn’t mean to write that much. I kind of got carried away.”

“Yeah. I can tell.”

By the way she presses back against the couch, I can tell she’s trying to disappear, like she’s expecting me to be pissed. Which I should be. And I was. But I can’t bring myself to be upset anymore, not when my song is finally starting to sound right.

I kneel next to the couch and tilt her chin up, so we’re eye-to-eye. “You weren’t lying when you said you played, were you?”

She shakes her head. “I played piano for years.”

“And you still haven’t forgotten how music sounds?”

A small, sad smile plays at the corners of her lips. “I’ll never forget.” She hesitantly tilts her head up until she’s directly looking at me. I take in her hazel eyes, which are so beautiful, so pained.

“How did you end up like this?” I gesture to the notebook. “This is brilliant, Ali. Freaking brilliant. You’ve got talent, and you say you belong in Mensa, so . . . what happened?”

Her expression wavers between hurt and anger, and she swallows hard, like she’s trying to gulp back painful memories. “I started playing when I was three. My mom inherited this old piano, and I just sat down one day and banged around on it until I figured out how to play ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.’ I had perfect pitch, so I could replicate pretty much any song I heard.”