Playing for Love at Deep Haven (14 page)

“Oh, I don’t
think so. That one’s really—”

“Awesome?
Amazing? Heartbreaking?”

“I was going to
say
personal
.”

Too personal
. Just as he had suspected, she was
scared to put herself out there, to really put something genuine and intimate
and instinctive out there. Once again he wondered if it had been he who’d
crushed her spirit. Or the
Smalleys
? He hoped, with
every fiber of his being, that it hadn’t been him, but his gut throbbed with
the truth. His thoughtless response to her sharing her feelings had changed her
– made her cautious and frightened where thumping, throbbing, painful,
exquisite life had once flourished.

“Personal’s
good, Vile. Personal’s what we need. It’s what people want to hear. Something
personal. Something real. Something beautiful.”

“You thought
that poem was beautiful?”

He was shocked
by the incredulity in her voice. Her brows creased like she wasn’t sure if she
believed him.

“I think that
poem was the most beautiful thing I’ve heard in nine years,
Violet-like-the-flower.” He drew her hand to his face, touching her finger to
the little mole under his eye. “And I think you’re the most beautiful person
I’ve ever seen. In my whole life.”

“How is this
happening?” she murmured.

“You and me?”

“You and me.
Again.”

“Fate.”

“Maybe.”

She searched his
eyes, then tilted her head, moving forward to touch her lips to his. His hands
tensed on her skin, sliding up her back, thumbs stroking the underside of her
breasts as she nipped lightly at his lips before slipping her tongue into his
mouth. She tasted like wine and tears and Violet, like second chances and old
feelings and new feelings and sad endings and hopeful beginnings. His thumbs
kneaded the silky, warm skin under the seam of her bra as he sucked on her
tongue, and she leaned her body closer to his. Her hands wound through his
hair, and his thumbs reached up, dusting lightly over her lace-covered nipples,
which beaded for him, making him groan into her mouth. She drew back, breathing
heavily.

“I don’t know
how many songs we’re going to be able to write,” she said, resting her forehead
against his.

“We’ll write
them in bed,” he sighed, his voice deep, his body rigid with need. “Before and
after.”

She sniffled one
last time then leaned back, grinning at him.

He wasn’t lying.
She was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. In his whole life. And he had
it so bad for her, it should have scared him. It should have scared him because
Violet wasn’t a sure thing. Because she could still walk away from him. Because,
based on their history, she probably would.

She slipped off
his lap, and then, as though she’d felt the fierce tremor of protestation at
the loss of her warmth on his lap, she took his hands in hers. She pulled him
up off the bench, toward the car. Zach had two thoughts as she looked back and
smiled at him with those puffy eyes and red, swollen lips.

The first was
this: if he did nothing else over the next two weeks, even if she walked away
from him in the end, he would do this one, crucial thing—he would help Violet
remember who she was and help her own it again.

The second was
this: there were a hundred good reasons to stop by a gas station at eight
o’clock at night. He had only one that mattered, and he wasn’t going home
empty-handed.

Chapter
11

“It’s not the
right chord, Zach. It’s not.”

Violet sighed
loudly and reached for the can of Pringles. Amazingly, their mutual work ethic
had taken over when they’d reached the house, and instead of ripping off each
other’s clothes, Violet had reached for a notebook and pen, and Zach had
reached for his guitar. But they’d been at it for over three hours, and they
didn’t have much to show for it. Violet grimaced at the notepad on her lap. She
still didn’t believe him entirely when he said her poems were good, but there
was no sense in fighting him since he was so resolute. She chose her words
carefully. “Or this poem isn’t right for that music.”

“The poem is
perfect. You just need to get used to the sound. It’s not folk.”

“I know it’s not
folk,” she answered, rolling her eyes at him as he gestured for the chips,
putting his pick between his teeth when he withdrew a handful.

They sat on the
floor against the living room sofa, a crackling fire burning in the fireplace
and a cornucopia of gas station junk food on the coffee table. As if by tacit
agreement, Zach hadn’t offered Violet any Scotch, nor had she asked for any.
She was encouraged, at first, by their drive and focus. But Zach was being
stubborn now—he was fixated on that D-major chord and wouldn’t give it up.
Couldn’t he hear that it just wasn’t right for the trauma of her words? For the
aching sadness?

“I know it works
for ‘Clair de Lune,’ but it’s not working for ‘My Spot.’ I think it needs
something a little darker, a little gloomier. A minor chord, maybe. ‘Clair de
Lune’ is wistful. ‘My Spot’ is like getting punched in your heart. It’s about
pain.”

Zach flinched
but ignored her. He started playing again, humming the melody line where the
words were supposed to go, and Violet shook her head back and forth, slapping
the notebook on the coffee table in frustration. Sophie’s words about taking a
risk passed through her head, but she was starting to feel like songwriting
together was one risk not worth taking. If they couldn’t write songs, she
wouldn’t be able to pay back her spent advance. And so far it wasn’t going very
well.

“How many times
do I have to say it? I don’t care what you hear in your head. You’re trying to
force the words into the wrong melody.”

“Uh, Violet,
this is what I do,” he said, smirking at her with a mocking superiority. She’d
forgotten what a smug bastard he could be when it came to music.

“Right. That’s
just great.” She braced herself on the couch to stand up. “I think we need a
break.”

“I don’t need a
break. Maybe
you
need a break.”

“Yeah, I definitely
need a break,” she said. “I need a break from
you.
”

He put his
guitar to the side, looking up at her, feigning surprise. “Oh. Is that how it’s
going to be?”

“Yes, oh, genius
songwriter who knows everything and obviously doesn’t really want a partner,
because he’s not listening to a damn word she’s saying. Yes, apparently that’s
how it’s going to be.” She took a deep breath. It had been an emotional day, to
say the least, and Violet wasn’t in the mood to squabble. “I’m really tired,
Zach. I’m going to bed.”

“Bed?” He ran
his tongue along his lips, looking up at her. “Yeah, we could pick this up in
the morn—”

“Alone.”

She gave him a
look, and his eyes took on a wounded, pleading quality. She was ruining
that
part of his night, and she knew
it, but she was too frustrated with him to shift gears and feel sexy and
playful with him. She put the top on the Pringles and packaged up the rest of
the snacks, taking them to the kitchen counter without a word. She felt his
eyes on her, hungry and desperate, the whole time. She even felt a little
satisfaction in punishing him.

“Violet, come
on. You’re just going to walk away? And go to bed by yourself?”

She turned off
the kitchen lights and started for the stairs.

“There you go.
Walking away. Just walking the fuck away because you don’t like how the song
sounds.”

No, I’m walking the fuck away because you’re not listening
to me. And this isn’t going to work if you don’t let me into the process.

“Good night,
Zach,” she called from the stairs. “See you tomorrow.”

Regardless of
what he might think, she’d had big plans for tonight too. And they didn’t
include sleeping alone. But he was patronizing her and ignoring her input, and her
frustration and disappointment had finally gotten the best of her. If they
couldn’t write one song together, how the hell were they going to write four?
In two weeks—correction: In twelve days?

And if she used
up all her time in Maine trying to write songs that weren’t going to be any
good? She’d return home with no songs, no $20,000,
and
no sequel. She’d be in breach of contract and have to wipe out
her paltry savings to pay the fine. Not to mention move out of her apartment,
find a new job, and . . .

She heard him
pick up his guitar and start playing the same chords again. They weren’t right
for her lyrics. He had to know that. He was just being pigheaded!

She slammed her
bedroom door shut and lay on the bed. For Violet, her poems had always felt
like a part of her soul, and the crushing disappointment of sharing them with
Shep
so many years ago, only to have him label them
“maudlin downers” or “a hobby, but not a career, Vi,” was enough incentive for
her to keep them hidden from him. She hadn’t even submitted them to the editor
at Masterson until after
Shep’s
death, knowing he’d
have tried to talk her out of it, calling it foolishness. He’d never read her
book, claiming it wasn’t an interesting genre for him. Honestly, it hadn’t hurt
her feelings. In fact, she’d been a little relieved that he’d never had a
chance to recognize himself in her writing, even though Veronica ended up with
Shane in the end. It had been enough–perfect, even–that he’d been genuinely
supportive of her novel-writing career, albeit from a polite distance.

Sharing “My Spot”
with Zach this afternoon had seemed so natural as she lay beside him again
after so many years apart, and she could tell he’d been moved by her words. She
could tell that still, now, despite the passage of time, he got her and her voice.
And her heart had swelled with the sheer joy of sharing her work with someone
who cared about it, who candidly and passionately appreciated it.

Which is why his
patronizing attitude downstairs had gotten under her skin so quickly. She
couldn’t bear for him to take her words and match them with the wrong music.
Not when he knew better. She’d rather not offer them at all. She’d rather
woodenly finish a mediocre book.

Her body tingled
with frustration, imagining the things they should be doing to each other right
now—the “damage” Sophie had mentioned—and she wondered if she’d been rash in
going to bed alone. When she’d lowered herself onto him this afternoon, his
eyes had captured hers unrelentingly, and he’d held his breath until she was
fully impaled on him before breathing again. Goose bumps lifted on her skin as
she remembered the way it felt to have Zach inside her again, to be joined so
intimately with him. It felt like heaven. Cliché? Maybe. But if heaven didn’t
feel like sex with Zach Aubrey, she’d just as soon skip it.

Her hand skimmed
over her blouse, pulling it out of the waistband of her jeans, and she caressed
the hot skin of her exposed stomach. And, oh my God, when he’d sat up, holding
her body against his, matched together in every possible way—their mouths,
their chests, his hardness deep inside her, her legs locked behind his back—she’d
almost wept from the heat and the intimacy and the way it felt—
felt
—to be with him again. She
unbuttoned her jeans, then unzipped them, slipping her hand inside to rest flat
over her panties. She heard his voice in her head murmuring, “Just let go,
baby,” deep and intensely aroused, and she moaned lightly. She wanted him.
Badly. Not her hand. Him.

She huffed,
sitting up in disappointment.

No, I’m not going back downstairs to write a shitty
song just so he’ll come upstairs with me after. I’ll take a shower instead.
That’s what guys do, isn’t it?

***

As he watched
her go upstairs alone in a snit, he felt like a jerk. She was punishing him for
being such an asshole of a writing partner, and the truth was? He deserved it.

More truth? He
loved her poem, but he hated it too. He hated that it had been born out of pain
that he had caused her. He hated that she was right: it was impossible to make
her words from those dark, lonely days fit into a carefree, major melody. He
hated the final words, “Never belonged to me,” even though he knew the song
would be a major hit if they could get their acts together and actually write
it. He hated that he’d have to listen to the song over and over again during
practices and recording sessions, every moment reminding him of what a bastard
he’d been.

For his own,
selfish sake, he wanted to cheer it up. He wanted the song to have hope. By a
strange twist of fate or destiny or dumb fucking luck, their story wouldn’t, in
fact, end that night at Yale. By some miracle, their story was still being
written.

Couldn’t he
offer hope to her heartbreak? Couldn’t they add that complexity to the text
through the music he wrote? Would it be wrong to take her gut-wrenching words
and marry them to a melody that offered hope?

Because then he
could bear it. He could write it and record it and listen to it a million times
if it had hope. If her words weren’t the last, well, word. If the music made
the words inevitable instead of impossible. He needed to write hope, if she’d
let him.

His fingers
started moving across the strings, playing a classical version of the old
Scottish hymn “
Bunessan
,” best known in Cat
Stevens’s
version of “Morning Has Broken.” It was a song
that had always confused him: the words were full of hope and promise, but the
melody was so heartbreaking. It contradicted itself in a perfect inversion of
the song he was writing with Violet. That it was Violet’s all-time favorite
piece of music wasn’t lost on him. Playing in a seamless stream, he walked up
the stairs, opened her bedroom door, and sat down on her bed to wait for her to
finish her shower.

***

Letting the
three-
nozzled
shower beat steaming water on her weary
body was a close second to sex with Zach,
and
it allowed her a little more time to sift through her feelings.
Sift
being a euphemism for
confront
because her feelings were less
and less hazy the more time she spent with Zach. And the less hazy, the more
vulnerable she became, which scared her. Because being with Zach now, even in
light of their differences, felt more right, more instinctive, than all the
years she’d spent with
Shep
. And that made her feel
heaps of guilt.

Oh,
Shep
had been solid and loving, but he’d never really
connected to her heart on the visceral level that Zach did. Around Zach she
felt illuminated from the inside out, she felt understood. She felt full. She
felt complete. Just as she had at Yale.

When Zach walked
away from her, her heart had imploded with the pain of his rejection, with the
pain of separation from him.
Shep
was a logical
successor, someone who, like water surrounding jagged stone, would serve to
dull Violet’s edges over time. Dull them until she could never feel that sort
of pain again. Until she lost sight of herself, softening into something smooth
and pretty, and not at all extraordinary. And thus had she lived for years, docile,
dull, and pretty.

And now, after
finding Zach again, every cell in her body was suddenly waking up after a deep,
long sleep. She’d already fought with him three or four times in the short time
they’d been reunited and it felt good—no,
great
—to
feel passion again. It felt empowering and blessedly familiar . . . as though
the cage into which she’d placed herself for nine years was dissolving around
her and she’d soon be free again. And it confirmed what every dormant cell in
Violet’s body had known for nine long, hibernating years: Zach was her other
half. In no uncertain terms, he was the only person on earth who could offer
her that feeling of completeness, who could make her feel whole.

But it didn’t
matter. Because for all that being with Zach blew her mind, as promised, and
her body recognized his as something that belonged to her, trusting him felt
impossible. Impossible. Despite his regrets and reassurances and beautiful
words and beautiful body, she simply didn’t trust him. And if she couldn’t
trust him, they couldn’t be together.

She closed her
eyes and leaned her head against the shower wall as the hot water cascaded down
her body, making her feel drowsy, and her heavy thoughts sapped any remnants of
spirit. The only person who made her feel whole was the person she trusted
least in the world. The irony of it, the unfairness of it, made her dizzy.

When she reached
for the faucet and turned off the rush of water, she heard something. What was
it? Music. Soft music coming from the bedroom. Turning her head toward the door,
she made out the dulcet tones of Zach’s guitar. She stepped onto the bath mat
and wrapped a fluffy white towel around her body. Then she leaned her exhausted
head against the door, listening. A small smile spread across her face as she
closed her eyes.