Live Out Loud by Marie Meyer (22)

“How many times do I have to tell you that you’re not like him?” Mom scolds.

Yep. She’s feeling better.

“You think your father would have ever learned another language for me? Hell, in the early days, I thought it was a sign of true love when he put his dirty underwear in the hamper. Guess how often that happened?”

I switch ears, pressing the phone between my face and shoulder as I unlock my back door. “Never.”

“Twice. It happened twice in twenty years we were married. On our wedding night, and next day, during our honeymoon. You, son, are not your father. Who takes care of me? Sure as hell ain’t your old man.”

Dropping the keys on the counter, I book it up the stairs, taking them two at a time. “Think it’s finally sinking in.” I get it loud and clear. Even when Harper and I argued last week, the fiery rage that usually burns through me—especially when I’m face to face with my dad—it didn’t rear its ugly head. “You taking it easy, Ma?” I ask, pulling Lizzy’s case from behind the nightstand. Flipping the latches, I grab Lizzy from the bed and tuck her away. We’ve got a date…hopefully.

“Yeah. Start my self-defense class tomorrow.”

“No shit! That’s great. I’m proud of you.”

When Dad came sniffing around Mom’s apartment complex a week or so after the attack, hoping to get his truck back, the cops nailed him. And since I convinced Mom to press charges, Raymond Kline won’t be getting out of prison anytime soon. He can rot in there for all I care.

Mom’s safe. She’s taking steps to protect herself. The band is off to a fucking great start. For once, I don’t feel like I have to look over my shoulder, or wait for the other shoe to drop. Can’t remember a time in my life when I’ve felt so free.

Now I just have to get my girl back.

“Listen, Ma. I’ve got an appointment I’m running late for. Call you tomorrow? I want to hear all about your class.” Jogging down the stairs, Lizzy in tow, I grab my keys, and head out the back door.

“Sure thing. And you let me know when I get to meet Harper? You can’t keep her all to yourself, forever.”

I can sure as hell try. Because I do…I want to keep her. Not share her with anyone. Forever. “I’ll keep you posted.” Unlocking the trunk on the Charger, I stow my guitar case.

“’Bye, baby. Love you.”

“Love you, too. See you soon.” I click the end button and fire up the engine. Before I back out, I send Harper another text. I know she’s getting them, the read receipts confirm it.

Red, text me. Not giving up.

Tossing my phone on passenger seat and throwing the car into reverse, I back out, and head for the one place I know Harper won’t be. I’ve got to enlist a little help if my plan is going to work.

Driving toward Harper and Chloe’s house, another difference between me and my dad slams into me, separating us farther: I’m looking forward to showing Harper King how much I fucking adore her. No, scratch that. I don’t just adore her, I love her. She’s my last thought when I fall asleep at night, and the first when I wake up in the morning. I don’t ever want that to chance. And even if she doesn’t take me back, that won’t change.

Before Harper, I was a selfish prick. An asshole. More like my dad than I wanted to admit. And to win Harper back, I need to prove to her that I’m not the old Thor. That I do trust her. I know she thinks I’m the most selfish person in the world right now. Wanting to hear her voice, for her to tell me how she feels, what makes her feel, was ever my only intent. For her to trust me.

I know her parents let her down when she was a kid. More than anyone, I know what that’s like. And yes, our stories a different, but that doesn’t mean either of us hurt any less because of what we lived through.

My broken bones healed, but Dad’s words are like daily punches to the gut. I will carry his fucking voice with me for the rest of my life. And it’s a struggle not to listen to his lies. That’s why I need Harper. Her truths are louder than any of his bullshit.

I’m sure the same is true for Harper. At least, I hope so. Thank God she didn’t have bruises to hide, or bones to set, but she has the open wounds of a relationship to stich back together. I’m glad her parents are trying to mend all those years of hurt and sadness, and are trying to do right by her. But the fact remains, their actions left lasting scar tissue around her heart.

It’s no wonder my constant nagging sent her running. I kept ripping away at the scar tissue until it was sore and raw. I hurt her. And now it’s time to repair the damage I caused. If it’s not too late.

I fucking need her. I can’t live without her. I refuse to allow some unspoken words and my fear of becoming something I’m not, get in our way.

Swinging the Charger into their driveway, I kill the engine, and climb out. Blood pounds loud in my ears, I thought the concert for the kindergarteners was going to be the hardest gig of my life. I was wrong by a long shot. If this goes down the way I want it to, my solo concert in two weeks will be the most difficult and most important gig of my fucking life.

I lift the guitar case from the trunk and slam the lid. Staring up at the house, all looks quiet. I hope she didn’t forget I was coming over.

My boots fall heavy on the concrete walkway. I press the doorbell. And I wait. And hope.

Inside, Bobby barks. I can hear his little feet scratching against the door. Thirty seconds later, Chloe pulls it open, arms crossed over her chest, glaring at me.

“Hi?” I offer, giving her a sheepish grin. She looks pissed. The refrain of Hall and Oates’s “Maneater” plays on a loop in my brain.

She cocks an eyebrow, but still doesn’t say anything.

Time to make nice with the best friend and gravel at her feet. “I know. I screwed up. That’s why I need to see you. I need your help to fix it.”

“Damn right, you screwed up. But”—a conspiratorial smile creeps to her lips—“it takes a good man to want to fix it. I’m glad you called.” She pushes the door open wider and lets me inside.

Bobby demands my attention first, doing his little hindquarters dance, standing and spinning on his back legs. Crouching down, I scratch him behind his ears, and get an unsolicited face wash at the same time. “Hey there, buddy. Long time no see. I’ve missed you, too.” Bobby yips his agreement, giving me a piece of his mind.

With one last pat on his head, I stand, Lizzy in hand, ready to get my plan started and my girl back. “Here’s the deal. My ASL is getting better each day. But, I need some help working out the signs for a song I wrote. I was hoping you’d be the chick to help me out?”

“First of all, I’m not a chick. I don’t cluck, and there’s not a feather on me.” She points.

This chi— Er, lady, has spunk. I like it.

“Second,” she continues, “don’t hurt Harper again. She’s been miserable this whole week.”

Her words hit me in the chest like an ax sticking right in my heart. Not that I’m glad Harper’s been miserable, but, it’s nice to hear that she’s missing me. Why else would she be miserable? That glimmer of hope is all I need. This plan is going to fucking work.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her. That was never my intention. I love her, Chloe. And I need to prove it to her. I need her to hear it.”

The hard, protective, badass-friend armor falls away. “You love her?” She folds her hands over chest and her voice gets all squeaky and high pitched. When I told Griffin, he patted me on the back and told me to go get her.

Women are the weirdest fucking creatures.

I nod. “Will you help me, please?”

She shakes her head up and down, excitedly, a huge-ass grin on her face. “Let me hear the song.”

“Thank you.” A little anxiety burns away. One small piece of the puzzle coming together. Now, I just have to trust that the largest piece still fits next to me.

Unlatching the guitar case, I pull Lizzy onto my lap. Tuning her up, I give Chloe a small concert, singing the song over and over, while she translates my voice and words into motion.

Three weeks, one day, twenty-one hours, forty-two minutes, and twelve seconds. Thirteen seconds.

Fourteen seconds.

It’s been too fucking long since I’ve seen or heard from Harper. I honestly thought she’d text me back once the anger and fire burned away. My girl is stubborn, I’ll give her that. But, so am I. If Chloe comes through for me, I’ll see Harper tonight.

Eighteen seconds.

I click my phone off and stuff it in my back pocket. Watching the clock isn’t going to make Harper appear. If she does at all. Hell, she’s gone three weeks without me, maybe I just need to face facts and find some way to move on. Maybe Harper’s done and she’s already moved on.

But, I’ve got to try. I want her to know that I haven’t given up on us. And, if tonight doesn’t work, then at least I’ll know I gave it my all. Put my heart on the line. Gave it to her, no fucking strings attached. If she doesn’t want it, it’s going to hurt like a son of a bitch. It always will. But, at least I can say that I know what it’s like to have had something real. Never thought I’d be that guy, but the second I saw her in the audience that night, my perspective shifted, the volume was turned up, and all I could hear was Harper King.

That’s been the only thing keeping me going these last few weeks. Knowing whom I’m fighting for.

Come on, Chloe.

Under the diving board, I pace to the opposite end of the pool, my third complete lap.

Commence lap four. I kick the same baseball-sized rock that’s kept me company, sending it down to the other end of the pool. On my return lap, I kick the mini boulder again. Rinse. Repeat.

Lap six. Kick. Turn back.

My phone vibrates against my ass cheek. Mid-kick, ready for lap seven, I pull my phone out faster than Harper can down a bag of mini Reese’s. Glancing at the screen, I see Chloe’s name, bright and promising. Umm…we’re here. I think? This place is a dump. Are you sure this is the right address? I’m supposed to leave her here? Yeah, I’m not quite comfortable with that. This place looks like the hangout of a serial killer. You’re not a serial killer, are you?

I roll my eyes as my thumbs scramble to hit the right keys. Goddammit! She better not leave. Yes. This is the right place. No, I am not a serial killer. Harper’s been here before, she knows this place. Convince her to come in. Please.

This is going to be the hard part. If Harper is finished with me…with us, she won’t come in and my plan is fucked. This is where Chloe has to sell it.

Chloe: Okaaaaay? (That was said with large amounts of skepticism.) She wants to know why you want to see her.

Fuck. Really? Like she doesn’t know? Just tell her to come in and hear me out. After that, if she still wants to leave, I’ll let her go.

My lungs burn in my chest. Goddamn. Hardest fucking text message I’ve ever had to type.

I check the clock, the app with the analogue version—I need the second hand. It’s not a grandfather clock, but it will do. Phase two of my plan, if things go my way. A new clock on my body, only this one won’t be a reminder of when I was broken; but a keepsake of when I was put back together…made whole.

Minutes tick by. No Harper. No messages.

When the five-minute mark passes with no communication, bile rise in my throat. The silence of this place is deafening.

She’s not coming.

Kicking the rock on last time, I send it flying against the side of the pool. Walking back to my spot, I roll up the blanket and blow out the candles. Fucking candles. So much for doing the romantic thing.

Sitting on the cold concrete, I lean back against the side of the pool, and pull my knees up and rest my elbows on top. Turning my silent phone around in my hands, I’m tempted to text Chloe. To find out what happened. What good would that do me, though? At least this way, I can sugarcoat the truth. Lie to myself.

Rubbing a hand over my face, I check the time again. She was supposed to be here fourteen minutes ago.

I’m fucking cold. Time to pack it in.

Picking up my shit, I stow the blanket under my arm and gather the three lavender candles I brought at that girlie bed-and-bath place. A chuckle catches in my throat. I’d spent an ungodly amount of time in that store, smelling every fucking candle until I found the one that smelled like Harper.

Lavender candles. Not even a worthwhile consolation prize. More like a cruel joke. Thanks for playing the game of love, Thorin. You lose, but take these scented candles to keep you warm and pining at night.

Everything in one hand, I go to the rickety ladder, and pull myself onto the bottom rung. Halfway up, I peel my eyes away from my feet, and look to the pool deck. Harper’s standing above me.

“Holy shit!” I yell, feet slipping on the rung. The ladder wobbles, but I manage to keep a strong grip. Not going to let an old rusted ladder throw me off its back like some fucking bull. Biting my bottom lip, my heart jumps in throat. Damn. If I’m going to die of a fucking heart attack, at least Harper was the last person I saw. I can die a happy man.

Harper bends over and holds out her hand. Passing her the blanket and the candles, I climb the rest of the way up.

I don’t know how it’s possible, but in the three weeks we’ve been apart, she’s gotten more beautiful. Her wild, red curls—the defiant ones—spring out from the rest of her hair like flames dancing in the moonlight.

She bites her left, lower lip, the crooked side, if she were smiling. Instead, she looks sad…withdrawn. I’ve never seen her like this. My Harper wears her crooked smile like a badge of honor, flashing it whenever she’s given the opportunity. Her eyes always sparkle like sea glass. But not now, there’s no light in her eyes.

I may not have taken my fist to her, but I did this. I broke all the things that lit her up inside. And now I need to put her back together and never break her again.

“Thanks for coming,” I sign. I’ve been practicing my ass off. Even enrolled in a basic ASL course at the community college starting next semester. Not sure how I’m going to squeeze that into record studio life, but I will make it work. It’s important to her, it’s important to me. Plus, I fucking love that sparkle in her eyes when she watches me sign. Who would have ever thought Thorin Kline would be a college man with a girl on his arm.

She nods, handing my things back. Still no light in her eyes. Work harder, Thor. Bring it back.

Taking the blanket and candles, I set them on the ground. “Not really how I picture this going down. But I’ll take it. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Chloe said I needed to hear you out.” She shoves her hands in her pockets, curling her shoulders inward, bracing herself against the cold November air.

I reach for the blanket, unfurl it, and drape it over her shoulders. She doesn’t protest or take it off, that’s a small victory in the Thor column, right? At this point, I’m counting every little win in my favor.

“I’d like that.”

The left side of her mouth twitches upward, the hint of a smile just below the surface. And I’ll take that one, too.

Pulling in a lungful of cold, night air, I crack my knuckles, straighten my back, and tilt my head side-to-side, making my neck pop. My onstage ritual before any performance. Except this isn’t a performance, it’s the real damn thing. I may pour my heart and soul into every single song I play on stage, but tonight, I’m giving my heart away. I just hope she wants it.

“I’ve been practicing this a lot, but I’m still not very good.” I know the signs, it’s just getting my hands to make them, that’s when I struggle. Harper and Chloe are so good. Their fingers and hands move over each word like poetry. My signing looks more like death metal.

“Just do your best.” And she smiles. A small one, but it’s real. And it’s mine. For me. I’ll fucking take it.

“I wrote you a song.”

She cocks her head, leveling me with a pointed stare. I can see the skepticism in her eyes.

“Here goes.”

Taking my phone from my back pocket, I unlock the screen and find the rough cut I recorded a few weeks ago. All the time I would have spent with her, I spent in the studio, working out this song. Kept my mind off the fact that I wasn’t with her.

“Will you hold this?” I ask, pushing my phone toward her. I’m going to need my hands free.

Harper takes it, our fingers brushing in the exchange. Okay, I may have set that up, I’m fucking dying to touch her.

“Press play whenever.” I instruct, heart thumping in my ears. Signing a song is nothing like playing it on the guitar, and I’m nervous as hell. I don’t want to fuck this up.

Harper’s finger hovers over the play button, dropping on it with a quick tap. The sound is turned to full volume, so she can feel the tinny vibrations filtering through the small speakers.

The recording crackles with rawness, none of the studio magic to clean it up. Just me, Lizzy, and a microphone.

With every breath, each strum of the guitar filtering out of my phone’s speakers, I keep my eyes glued on Harper. Just like the night I first saw her at Mississippi Lights, I couldn’t look away then…I can’t look away now.

The music ends with a loud click where I turned off recording equipment. Silence buzzes in my ears, the remnants of the lingering music waves in the night air.

Harper’s breaths come fast. Still wrapped in my blanket, she bites her lower lip.

“I’m sorry, R-E-D. I’m sorry for everything. For keeping secrets. Not letting you in. And for hurting you, making you feel less than, because that’s not it. You mean more to me than Lizzy, and air, and all the stars in the fucking sky. And if I get the chance, I’ll do better.”

She sucks in a gulp of air.

“I need you. The way you are. No changes.” I step closer, hoping she’ll welcome my advance. “I want you. The way you are. No changes.” Lifting the blanket from her shoulders, I let it fall to the ground. Unshed tears glisten in her eyes, looking more like sea glass than ever. “I trust you. With my life. My heart. Everything that’s me. I love you. The way you are, for who you are. Every part of you. And I guarantee my love will change. It will grow with each tick of the clock. I’m tired of keeping it quiet. I love you, Harper King.”

She lets the tears fall. With my thumb, I brush one away as I circle my arms around her back, drawing her to my chest. When she doesn’t pull away, I know everything’s going to be okay.

I place a kiss on her forehead and close my eyes. Breathing her in, I memorize the way her body fits to mine, never wanting to forget what this feels like—to have her back in my arms after being gone for so long.

She reaches for me, putting her tiny hand against my cheek. Lowering my head, my lips find hers. A sweet kiss, unhurried, but heavy with wanting, our mouths brush together. This is the kind of kiss that writes poetry and love songs. The kind of kiss that leaves a mark, just like when lightning kisses the sand. It fuses us together, into something unique and strong.

When we finally pull apart, I stare into her green eyes, searching. “I’m sorry, Harper.” I say again. Gently laying my hand against her mouth, I lower my middle and ring fingers, signing, “I love you.”

She kisses my fingers and folds them into her hands. Our entwined hands fall to our side and she opens her mouth like she’s going to say something.

Shaking my head, I lean in and kiss her before she tries. I didn’t put this whole make up scene together in order to get something out of her. If she ever decides to speak out loud, it will be on her time, not because I put together some grand gesture to win her heart.

“I want you the way you are, no changes. I hear you loud and clear, Harper King.” I press a hand to her heart, feeling it beat a fast and steady.

She kisses the corner of my mouth, tasting her salty tears on my lips. Warm and wonderful.

“I love you, too. Thor.” She presses her hand against my mouth, “I love you.”

And time stands still.