The Sound

  So I take a step backwards, coughing and rummaging in my bag, and then come blustering through the door. Niki frowns when she sees me and glances back over her shoulder at Jesse who just nods at me and says, ‘Hey, Ren.’

  ‘Hey,’ I say, the breath departing from my body in one rush.

  Niki gives me a smile so painful she looks as if she has piles and then she brushes past me. She pauses in the doorway to scowl at Jesse and cut her eyes in my direction. I pretend not to notice and wander into the centre of the room.

  ‘Hey.’

  I turn. Niki is still standing in the doorway frowning at me. ‘Weren’t you the girl Jesse brought to the gig the other week?’ she asks.

  Yeah,’ I say, wondering where this might be going.

  Her frown is fading, gradually being replaced by a smile. ‘Did you write that blog post about us?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, feeling my cheeks start to burn. This is not what I expected to be asked. ‘Yeah.’

  She smiles properly now, her whole face lighting up. ‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘That was so cool of you. It really got us noticed. You’ve got so many followers.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, kind of stunned. ‘Yeah, you’re welcome.’ I glance quickly at Jesse. Crap. Does he already know? I didn’t want him to find out this way – or any way – I brush a strand of hair behind my ear, feeling the prickling weight of his eyes scouring me.

  Niki nods in farewell, still smiling, and disappears.

  I turn around slowly and find Jesse, as I suspected, staring at me quizzically. I shrug.

  ‘You write a blog?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say.

  ‘A music blog?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell me this why?’

  I shrug. ‘It never came up.’

  ‘You told me you wanted to be a music journalist, why didn’t you mention the blog?’ He studies me, frowning but smiling too, his brown eyes dancing, and I get that quiver feeling all over again and think to myself, oh help, oh crap, Jeremy who?

  ‘Anything else you’re keeping a secret from me?’ Jesse asks, still smiling.

  I shake my head, a gobstopper-sized ball of guilt getting stuck in my throat. Now would be the time to tell him about Jeremy but do I? Do I hell. I’ve already perjured myself to a police officer. What’s one more person to lie to?

  ‘No,’ I say in the smallest voice, then turning the conversation away from me, I say, ‘though given that you have more secrets than MI5 it’s a little unfair of you to ask me that.’

  I’m thinking about the secret reason he wants to kill Tyler Reed and also about this girl Hannah that Niki mentioned was in Boston – who’s she? I can’t keep up with all the women in his life. But Jesse just laughs under his breath and reaches for his guitar.

  ‘Were you listening for long?’ he asks, indicating the door.

  ‘I wasn’t—’

  He arches an eyebrow at me. ‘OK,’ I say, hating myself for how hard I blush. ‘I heard a bit. Niki wants you to play in the band, huh?’

  ‘Yeah. They’ve been asked to do a demo by a record company.’

  ‘That’s amazing. You guys are really good.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, sounding thoroughly unthrilled.

  ‘Why aren’t you excited?’

  ‘I am,’ he sighs. ‘It’s cool for them. They deserve it.’

  ‘So,’ I say, shaking my head, ‘you would rather stay here and fix bikes up than become a famous musician with groupies throwing themselves at you every night? That doesn’t sound like the Jesse I know.’

  ‘Hah.’ He grimaces. ‘I’ve got to stay here and help my dad.’ He indicates the workshop. ‘You know, he got a loan against this place to get me a lawyer. And now we’re about to go under.’

  There’s a silence. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  He looks at me curiously. ‘Why? It’s not your fault.’

  I shrug. How do I answer that? I’m sorry that he’s obviously hurting. I’m sorry that he can’t do something that he clearly loves and wants to do.

  ‘And it was all for nothing,’ he says, his brow creasing. ‘I pleaded guilty. I was guilty. I didn’t care about going to prison. But my dad wanted at least to try to reduce the sentence, see if I could get released on parole.’ His mouth tightens in a line. ‘But Reed’s father’s a famous lawyer. He probably plays golf every Sunday with the judge who heard my case. It didn’t make any difference. Nothing would have made any difference. So now we’re in debt and it’s all my fault.’

  He’s staring at the ground, his fingers gripping the neck of the guitar as though he’s trying to throttle it. It would make an incredible portrait for an album cover. I push the thought instantly away and take a step towards him.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ I ask.

  He looks up sharply, his gaze lingering on my hand, which has somehow ended up, entirely of its own volition, on his elbow. Then he raises his eyes to my face. ‘Everyone keeps asking that. No. There’s nothing you can do.’ His tone softens, his expression too. ‘But thanks for asking. That’s enough.’

  And then he takes a deep breath and hands me the guitar. I sit down on the cylinder drum and he swings his leg over and sits behind me on the same drum, so my back is pressed against his chest, his legs pressing either side of mine, and I think I might need to reach for my inhaler. Which would be insanely embarrassing so instead I just try focusing on breathing long and deep and trying to fill my spasm-ing lungs. Jesse’s breath tickles the back of my neck as he leans forward. His arms are wrapped around me as he begins positioning my hands on the strings. I’m wondering how he acts with the girls he’s actually trying to pull if this is how he behaves with the ones he’s classified as just friends. But I don’t say anything because he’s not flirting directly. In fact he’s busy talking me through the different parts of the guitar, his fingers sliding down the body and the neck, and it’s me that’s not listening because I’m too busy staring at his face in profile. His eyes are the most beautiful brown colour, dark at the edges and lighter, almost amber at the centres, and he has the longest, straightest, thickest eyelashes I’ve ever seen – like frayed velvet.

  ‘You listening?’ he asks.

  I swallow and look at the strings, feeling the heat of his body magnifying the blush. My fingers feel clumsy and rigid, while his are deft and fluid. But before I know it I’m playing guitar. Not very well admittedly but playing nonetheless. Jesse moves to sit opposite me on the other cylinder drum. He is nodding and smiling as I play, reaching forwards to fix my fingers whenever I hit a wrong note, which is often.

  Eventually he checks his watch and I take that as my cue. I prop the guitar against the workbench and stand up. ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  ‘My pleasure,’ he answers.

  I grab my bag and head out the door and as I go I notice a photograph tacked to the wall by the counter above the row of books. It’s a girl with dark hair and green eyes – she’s about thirteen or fourteen and behind her stands a woman who I’m assuming is her mother. ‘Who’s that?’ I ask, stopping to look.

  Jesse is right behind me. His chest brushing my shoulder.

  ‘That’s my sister Hannah and my mom,’ he says quietly.

  ‘Oh.’ That’s one mystery solved. I realise that I hadn’t even thought about Jesse’s mother. That he has a sister is in some ways surprising because he hasn’t mentioned her but less so when I remember how sweet he was with that girl outside the bookshop. Maybe that was her.

  ‘They live just outside Boston,’ Jesse says.

  That can’t have been her then. Maybe one of her friends.

  ‘Oh,’ I say again, then after a pause, ‘my dad doesn’t live with me either.’

  Jesse is chewing his bottom lip and he’s still staring at the photograph. I feel a pang that I’ve managed to make him sad and try to think of something to say to undo it.

  ‘So, you want another lesson?’ he asks suddenly, his attention snapping back to me.

&nbs
p; ‘Yeah, that would be great,’ I answer, trying to sound cool.

  ‘How’s Saturday?’

  I hesitate. I’m going sailing on Saturday with Jeremy and Parker.

  ‘Um,’ I say, ‘Sunday?’

  He shrugs. ‘Sure. See you then.’

  He turns away, his eyes glancing over the photograph before he heads back inside the workshop.

  I walk out into the sunshine and find Mr Miller there, arranging the bikes that are for rent.

  Hello,’ he says when he sees me, smiling brightly.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  He nods his head at the door. ‘Was that you Jesse was teaching to play guitar?’

  I nod. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He’s a good boy,’ Mr Miller says to me, ‘whatever you hear about him, he’s got a good heart. He was only trying to do the right thing. It wasn’t his fault.’

  ‘I don’t understand—’ I start to say, but just then the door swings open. Jesse is standing there. He glances between us. Mr Miller starts polishing one of the bikes.

  ‘I was just leaving,’ I mumble.

  ‘Bye,’ Jesse says and he watches me as I walk back to the car.

  30

  When I envisioned myself sailing, wearing a bright orange life jacket and hurling over the side of the boat while Jeremy battled the perfect storm, I could not have imagined how close to the truth that vision would become. Other than the perfect storm part. There was no perfect storm. Just perfect humiliation.

  You actually threw up in front of him?

  Yes, I type. My legs still feel like they are swaying even though they’re tucked beneath me on the bed.

  OMG, Megan types.

  Yes.

  OMG!

  Yes. I punch the keys wondering how long she’s going to keep OMGing.

  That is so embarrassing.

  Thanks for pointing that out.

  How did Jeremy take it?

  Well, considering.

  I remember Jeremy patting me on the back and handing me a bottle of water. I remember Parker laughing (Paige is right, I take it all back about him being alright, he’s a total jerk). And I also remember Eliza (who shouldn’t have been there but whose sole purpose in life seems to be to bear witness to my humiliations) laughing her arse off. If I hadn’t been too busy leaning over the railing throwing up for the fishes I would probably have smacked her one. I wonder if Eliza’s high-pitched laughter will become the abiding soundtrack of my time in Nantucket and groan inwardly.

  The photos are amazing, Megan writes and I know that she is trying to make me feel better. She’s talking about the photographs I’ve just posted to Facebook. There are none from the sailing trip – funnily enough – but there are some from the beach and the July fourth celebrations.

  You look so hot in that bikini.

  I glance at the photograph on the screen that she is talking about. It’s one that I took on my phone of me and Jeremy. He has his arm around me, the sea glints in the background. Three weeks ago I would have thought, Take that Will! Now I couldn’t care less.

  And he is seriously yum. So have you decided? (A row of winking emoticons follows.)

  I know instantly what she is talking about because one way or another, with Megan the conversation always comes back to sex.

  I hesitate, with my fingers dancing above the keys. I’m not sure whether I should tell her or not.

  There’s this other boy, I finally type.

  OMG. Who? Tyler? she demands.

  No. Jesse. Even as I type his name my fingers are shaking.

  The bike guy? You have the hots for the bike guy? What does he look like?

  Like a cross between Damien from The Vampire Diaries (only taller) and Alex Fuentes from Perfect Chemistry.

  Are you trying to make me die of lust?

  No. I’m just describing him.

  I hate you right now. Just so you know.

  There’s just one problem.

  He’s gay?

  No.

  He has a bitch skank girlfriend?

  No.

  He has a really nice supermodel girlfriend?

  No.

  He doesn’t know you exist?

  No.

  I pause, wondering if I should mention Jesse’s reputation for being a player but decide just to stick with the main issue for the moment.

  He kind of beat the crap out of someone.

  OMG did you vomit up your brains or something? Are you insane? Steer clear.

  He’s not like that though. He’s really sweet. Even as I type it I realise how it must sound. If the situation were reversed I’d be yelling at Megan right about now.

  Yeah, that’s what they said about the Boston Strangler and Hannibal Lecter. Are you out of your mind?

  The guy he beat up totally deserved it.

  And now you sound like a victim of domestic violence. Ren, I am officially worried about you.

  Damn, I knew I should have kept my mouth shut.

  If you get with this Jesse guy I’m going to tell your mother.

  Don’t you DARE.

  Maybe he’s the one killing the nannies.

  It isn’t him, I type furiously.

  That’s the whole point. You never think it’s the guy that it always ends up being. It’s him. For sure. I’m never wrong on these things.

  Last week you thought it was Mike.

  Well this week I think it’s him.

  I need to deflect her and swiftly before she logs out and calls my mum.

  It isn’t Jesse. It doesn’t matter anyway. Because he really absolutely totally has no interest in me. I’m the human equivalent of catnip to him.

  That’s why you like him. Because he’s not interested in you (for which, by the way, he’s stupid but for which I’m also GRATEFUL cos I want my BFF to NOT DIE).

  I barely read the last part because I’m thinking about what she’s said about me being interested in Jesse only because he’s not interested in me. I’m trying to work out how true this might be.

  There’s only one thing to do, Megan writes.

  What?

  Sleep with Jeremy.

  ?

  That will help you forget Jesse.

  I’m not sure of the logic, I write.

  Look, I’m your BFF. Would I lie to you? So believe me when I tell you that THE ONE does not exist. I know you want him to. I wish for your sake that he did. But remember you thought it was Will. Wrong. It isn’t this guy Jesse either because he sounds like an insane asylum. This guy Jeremy is a hottie. He is rich. He is into you. He’s romantic. He told you you have delicious thighs and you said he’s a good kisser. He also watched you puke and didn’t run for the hills.

  He couldn’t run for the hills because we were on open water but I don’t have the energy to type a witty retort.

  You want unicorns and rainbows and care bears in the sky and Twilight style declarations of eternal love? Well – newsflash – it ain’t gonna happen, Ren.

  I am chewing my cheek by this point as Megan’s words keep on flowing.

  So my advice for what it’s worth is to get it over with. Have fun with Jeremy (THE NON VIOLENT ONE) and forget this Jesse guy.

  Maybe, I think to myself, Megan has a point.

  31

  I turn up at Miller’s on Sunday morning as planned for my guitar lesson because even though Megan has a point it would be rude to cancel. Jesse is not in the workshop though, he’s waiting for me outside, leaning against the wall. And instead of holding a guitar he’s holding something that looks suspiciously like a fishing rod.

  I slow my pace. ‘Is that some kind of new string instrument?’ I ask when I’m close.

  He gives me that dangerous half-smile. ‘I thought it was such a beautiful day we could go to the beach and do the guitar lesson later.’ He seems extremely confident of my agreement (he’s holding two fishing rods after all) but I’m sure I see a glimmer of worry in his eyes also that I’m going to say no.

  ‘Which beach?’ I ask.


  He looks instantly relieved. ‘Smith’s Point. The far west of Madaket.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Sounds fun.’

  He piles two fishing rods and a bucket which seems to contain something alive and squirming, and which I therefore avoid looking at, into the flatbed of the truck and then glances over at me. ‘Shotgun or in the back with the bait?’

  ‘Shotgun,’ I say and he opens the door for me.

  We start driving and I wind down the window to let in some air.

  ‘I read your blog piece about the band,’ Jesse says, shooting me a quick look. ‘I read all your posts in fact.’

  I turn my head to look at him. All my blog posts? That’s close to two hundred posts. That would have taken him a really long time.

  ‘You’re a really good writer. I can see why you’ve got so many followers.’

  I shrug. I’m not sure how exactly but I have three thousand followers which is pretty huge in blogger terms.

  ‘You’re going to do well. I know it. It’s cool that you’re following your dream.’

  I smile to myself and glance out of the window so he can’t see. A silence sits between us. I think of Jesse stuck in the bike shop trying to help his dad save it from going under. I wish there was something I could do to change things for him.

  ‘What happened with your parents?’ he suddenly asks, looking across at me. ‘You said you didn’t live with your father.’

  ‘He left when I was five,’ I blurt. ‘It was another woman. His secretary. Total cliché.’ I feel the tightness in my chest wind its way around my throat. ‘He married her. They have two kids now.’ My voice catches despite myself. ‘He’s busy with them I guess.’ I give a little shrug. Jesse’s the first person, other than Megan, that I’ve ever told that to.

  Jesse swears under his breath, and his hand suddenly covers my own and squeezes. ‘His loss,’ he says and he gives me a quick smile before his hand returns to the wheel. I breathe out slowly, more easily.

  ‘What about your mum and sister?’ I ask, glancing at him sideways. ‘When did your parents break up? When you were little?’