17 | Listening

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"You hungry?" Of course he's hungry. I'm thinking food will help keep the peace for a while. "I'll order. Thai? Korean? Jamaican? What are you in the mood for?"

"Those Italian noodle things."

"Spaghetti? Ravioli? Pappardelle? 'Italian noodles' isn't very specific. Lasagna sounds nice."

"Let's eat out."

I scan his face, and he's not joking. "We're too famous."

"You don't want to be seen with me?" he challenges.

"No, not really, no." The last thing I need right now is Alex looking at Scott and me sharing dinner at a fancy candlelit restaurant via some tabloid site. Scott would probably see that as poetic justice, but I'm not one to repay cruelty with cruelty. I send Alex a quick text. "It's going to be okay." I'd like to tell him what time I'm coming back, but I have no idea. I switch surreptitiously back to ordering food and pick something interesting out for Scott. He used to like it when I would surprise him.

Silence stretches out between us to its breaking point. I don't know what to say that won't start an argument, but I have to try something. "So you have a studio here now." It's been here a long time, but I've only seen pictures.

"Yeah... yeah, Justin and Chris's old rooms."

"I haven't really heard from them since they went to San Francisco."

"They came to... I saw them at..."

"A concert," I finish. He nods. We made it all of four sentences before running into a topic of contention. The last time I saw him was at his concert, and security had to drag me out cursing and weeping. "Can I see it?"

"What's mine is yours," he answers. Wow. I'm just going to ignore the bitter double meaning and take his words at face value.

The wall between Justin and Chris's rooms is gone, replaced by a thick plexiglas barrier between one side with microphones and a grand piano (I'm trying to figure out how they fit it through the door, and I have no idea,) and the other, with a mixing board. I sit at the bench and align my fingers on the piano keys, playing a tentative chord. Scott sits across the divide, pulling on headphones to listen to me.

This feels good. I close my eyes and play old, familiar songs until I'm comfortable again. Scott leaves and comes back with our food, but he doesn't open it yet.

I'm out of practice, and I'm hesitant to start singing in front of him, but I can't really help it. I am at a loss for words. That's what music is for. Can't believe I let you pull me down to this place. What am I doing here? How long am I staying? Am I going to let Scott drag me back down again? I never finished climbing back up. You stole my heart and soul. Just to think that I had dried those tears from your face. I glance up, and he's watching my lips as I sing. There are tears in his eyes, but he's not looking away. I played such a foolish game, feeling you were everything to me and more. I still feel that way. I don't mean to point the blame, but baby you hurt me to my very... That's enough of that song.

I keep playing, transitioning to a minor key. There was a time, I swear there was a time, when I was enough. Scott may have written this for Alex, or even me, but I could as easily have written this part for Scott. There was a time you were mine and you cared for my love. He knocks on the window and points at a pair of headphones, then makes a T with his arms: from the top. Sorry, didn't mean to butcher your song because I've never played it before. I mean, it wasn't that bad. Maybe it wasn't as intricate as the original, but... whatever. I can do better. I guess I forgot music is work. I step away from the piano as the track starts playing and sing into the standing mic. Scott's singing the same song across the barrier, but I can't hear him. 'Better to love' isn't true. I sing the harmony like usual and trust that Scott has the melody. Loving and losing's not worth it with you. Maybe that's why I can't bear the thought of losing Alex. If I leave, what was the point of any of this?

The music is soothing. It's sad, but it's familiar. I shut my eyes and pour my soul into the microphone, and it feels good to do this in front of Scott. He can't say anymore that I don't listen to his music, that it doesn't affect me. No, now that I'm not distracted by the piano, I sing it perfectly straight through. I know it better than anything.

When I open my eyes, Scott is still staring at me, still crying. My own tears don't affect me anymore. It used to be that I cried when something was terribly wrong, but something has been terribly wrong for years, and now I just cry when my script tells me to or when it's all too much. It doesn't mean anything. Maybe Scott's the same, more or less. It seems like he's barely even noticed he's crying. I can't help but worry, but he's putting in another track and signaling for me to continue. We go on for hours. I want him to know I've been listening. I didn't when we were still together. I didn't understand. I want him to see that I care.

My stomach starts trying to sing with me after some time, and I take that as a sign I need to stop for food. I point at my box, and we go to the kitchen together to reheat it, with his arm draped over my shoulders. I don't know what to make of it, but I'm not complaining.

I microwave his linguini first, and he pulls out plates and silverware. Fancy. "You sound amazing," he says.

"Thanks."

"You were perfect. Better than I could have imagined."

"You made it easy. You wrote the songs for my voice."

"But you were incredible... like you'd practiced. I'm sorry you heard those. I mean, I know they're everywhere, but I'd hoped you'd avoid them. Please just don't take them to heart."

"I know you didn't think I listened, but you wanted me to. You wanted them to hurt."

"They resonate with people and they help me work through my thoughts. I won't deny they're about you and Alex, but they're not the whole picture. They're everything that wasn't good for me, everything I had to get out. It wasn't healthy for me to think like that, but writing songs helped."

"Healthy. Right." I'm not sure how to ask this. "How are you?"

"Better." He nods to himself. "Much better."

"You had depression, didn't you?"

"I was diagnosed in rehab."

"I said everything wrong. I'm so sorry. I feel terrible. I made you feel terrible. I'm so sorry."

"You didn't understand. It's okay. I didn't either."

"I never listened."

"But you cared, you know? You got that it was harder for me, even if you didn't get why. You were better than most."

"I should have been there for you."

"You're back now."

"Can I... maybe I should get a hotel or something. It would be weird if I... never mind. Maybe I should just-"

"Stay. Please."

I nod and I thank him with my eyes. I'm not ready to go back. I'm not ready to leave. I'm starting to think that maybe if I stay long enough, we can fix this.

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