Read The Girl In Between (The Girl In Between Series Book 1) Page 41
I sat in the grass, not wanting to move. I’d seen me as a child—all chubby cheeks and gap-toothed smile. I’d seen my dad. Tall. Strong. Same eyes as mine. Same tight jaw. And my mom. Tight lipped. Biting back a smile every chance she got.
I knew it was them. I knew it. And now I couldn’t move because I wasn’t just starting to remember. I was starting to feel. And not just Bryn but everything.
Bryn wasn’t at the farmhouse when I got back. She wasn’t down on the beach. She wasn’t in her childhood pirate ship or at the edge of the dock or on that snow covered hill. I was alone again. Except that I wasn’t. Not with all of those thoughts pinging around my brain. Not with the revelation that I had a family, a real one, swelling in that tight space between my lungs.
I wasn’t alone.
I pushed the door open to the farmhouse, heading for the couch, for Bryn’s diary still resting on the arm. But the sunlight was tangled in something, so bright in the corner of my eye. I turned and I saw the bass guitar, pegs glinting, sunlight bleeding red over the strings. In that pool of light and shadow there was an entire sunset and when I picked it up, plucking at the strings, I could taste every color.
Bryn. Had she sent this to me? What if she’d found me? If we’d met? Then why was I still in her grandparent’s farmhouse? I cradled the bass, letting it sink against my chest. I ran my hand along the frets, waiting for an itch, an inkling. She thought it had been a clue but I wasn’t so sure.
I tried to lure out a note, a melody, but even the bass itself felt heavy and foreign. I sat there picking at the strings, thumb resting on the tuning pegs, waiting for some kind of ephemeral nudge. But in that silence, in my head and all around me, my hands began to tremble. All of that wanting was concentrated in my fingertips and still I couldn’t remember a thing. I sat there trying not to cry even though I could already feel the tears like thorns in the back of my throat.
But just before I gave in I spotted the record player, another Rush album waiting for the needle. I dropped it, the first track sifting out, my fingers idling over the strings in hesitation until I found the bass. And then, as soon as the solo kicked in, the strings bit into my skin and my fingers went flying across the frets. I rode under the notes. On beat. In sync. I felt another flash flit across my vision until I couldn’t even see the strings anymore. My hands slipped but I didn’t let go. It burned there with my pulse. In and out. In and out. And I just kept playing. Through the burning, through everything. I kept playing, following the song and she was right.
She was right.
Bryn was right.
When the last song faded out, the needle spinning off the record, I kept playing. I kept plucking the strings until my fingers were red and raw and sore. I kept playing—songs by Mismatched Machine, songs I couldn’t remember the name of, songs I hadn’t even remembered learning. I played chaotic riffs and complicated melodies before sinking into a slow rhythm, hands tired but fingers still just wanting to move, to coddle out another sound. Just one more sound.
Then I couldn’t help it. Tears slipped onto my hands, carving down my cheeks but I still didn’t let go. Until the door creaked open and I saw Bryn. She was standing there, twilight ignited behind her as she stared at the bass, at my hands curled around it.
“You—”
I looked down, hiding my face.
“Roman?”
“I’m starting to remember,” I said.
She sunk down next to me but I still couldn’t look at her.
“Was it long?” I asked.
She looked at me, cheeks flushed. “The longest.”
“Did you find this?” I asked her, one hand still gripping the bass’ neck.
“I bought it.”
“What?” My eyes flashed to her face. “This is a Schecter. Those cost like—”
She shook her head. “It was nothing.” She looked right at me, right through me this time. “What’s wrong?”
I bit my lip and then her hand was against my neck, gripping me.
“Roman.”
“I remember them,” I finally said.
“Who?”
“My parents. I think I’m starting to remember them. And this.” I nodded to the bass. “I remember it too.” I looked right at her. “I’m starting to remember.”
“I found your picture,” she said, voice catching.
“Where?”
“Online. I found tour photos from a Mismatched Machine concert last summer.”
“Did you find out where?”
“Not yet.”
“But you found me.” My pulse rioted in my veins. I was real. I existed. Somewhere. Not just there in that farmhouse. Not just there with Bryn.
“I’m close,” she said.
She leaned in, her lips drawing my eyes closed. But then I opened them again and she was gone.