A Thousand Perfect Notes(59)

He follows August slowly, half because he’s drinking in her house for the last time and half because he doesn’t want to see her face as she listens.

She sits cross-legged on her bed, battered laptop open before her as the song loads. She turns it up as loud as it can go and three of her cats leave the room. Beck is mildly offended.

Beck can feel the bass through the floorboards. Did he really play it that loud? He remembers the white piano and the blue room and Jan’s excitement over discovering this is what Beck’s good at. This is what he’s made for.

It doesn’t matter if it’s nearly freezing outside, August’s smile is lime and summer.

She’s crying.

‘That bad, huh?’ he says.

She shoves his arm, always as physical and violent as a kitten.

Her lips open and don’t pause and he can’t get in a word edgewise until he leans across the bed and covers her mouth with his for the briefest heartbeat of a second. Then he scoots so he sits beside her, their thighs touching, and he tilts his right ear towards her.

He has to stop pretending. He has to talk normally. He can’t let the tremor into his voice. This is August and he doesn’t have to pretend, but he’d like her last memory of him to be a creator of dancing notes not a crying boy.

‘If you talk really loud to my right side,’ he says, husky, ‘I’ll be able to hear.’

At least the Maestro didn’t break his hands.

The Maestro took his hearing. Not all of it. And a specialist says there are options to look into and Jan promises they will in Germany. And for now? Beck doesn’t even mind that much. He’s not missing anything. He has a ridiculous amount of music in his head now that it’s all he can hear.

‘… no … how can … Beck …’ is all he gets from August.

He tells her to slow down, lean in, speak clearly. She has to stop crying for that, so she takes a second to swallow and straighten her shoulders and tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

‘The song says it all,’ Beck says, his voice a garble to him but hopefully clear for her. ‘Everything I ever thought about you. And more.’ Like what you mean to me. ‘And a bit of an apology. I missed your birthday.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Like that is … and … matters.’

‘I tried to capture you in the music,’ he says, feeling like an idiot. He’s not an artist. This isn’t a painting.

‘You caught me,’ she says. ‘And you with the … love it.’

He hopes he didn’t make it up. He hopes she loves it.

‘I’m going to Germany.’ Beck feels the room shrink and wither. August’s body stiffens beside him. ‘Joey and me. I’m going to write a million songs.’

‘For ever?’ She swipes her eyes with her knuckles and keeps her back straight, her posture undefeated. She frowns a little but nods. ‘I always wanted to see Germany.’

His smile is all a mess. ‘I don’t – August. I …’

‘When I finish school, I … backpack the world,’ August says. ‘First stop is apparently Germany.’ She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

I’ll miss you, Beck wants to say.

He stares at her feet.

He doesn’t want this to be the end of August Frey, the girl who prompted him to save his life. He doesn’t want this to be the last song he writes for her or the last time he dusts flour off her cheek with his thumb or the last time he smells her kiwi fruit shampoo or gets lost in her ocean eyes.

‘I think,’ Beck says, ‘that I like you quite a lot, August Frey.’

‘Likewise, Beethoven Keverich,’ she says fiercely.

She slips her small, warm hand into his trembling one and their fingers knot. How come they have to fit so perfectly, so briefly?

Please don’t let her forget him.

Did he say that out loud?

‘Do you think I’m going to forget you?’ she says, her lips close to his ear. ‘I’ll listen to … song on repeat until … demand you write me a sequel.’

‘I’ll write you an entire symphony if you ask.’

He’ll write her enough songs to cover the entire world.

‘A very loud symphony,’ August says. ‘And when a freaking huge German orchestra plays this … a front-row seat.’

‘I’m sorry it’s not perfect, though,’ Beck says. ‘I totally made mistakes—’

‘Oh stop it.’ She faces him, speaking clearly, and he hears her this time. ‘You are worth more than a thousand perfect notes.’

And finally, his hands stop

trembling.





It’s not easy to write acknowledgements when you’re clutching your own book and whispering, ‘Look, it’s a real book!’ which is basically what I’m doing all the time now. I’m so ridiculously pleased my years and years of words and wishes are now book-shaped and I can share them with you instead of hoarding them in a drawer. An overwhelming amount of thanks goes:

To my super agent, Polly Nolan, who is endlessly fantastic and has a magical way of making my stories a hundred times better. Forever grateful to work with you.

To my editors, Megan Larkin and Rosalind McIntosh, champions of my book and a hundred thank-yous are owed! And to the brilliant Orchard team for making A Thousand Perfect Notes absolutely (I can’t help myself) perfect.