“Mess?” I barely held back my offended gasp.
“Yes, Ivy. Mess. This isn’t a decorating scheme. This is Goodwill meets the Habitat for Humanity Restore shop and has a love child with every starving artist in the city. It’s definitely a mess.” Ryder laughed at my expression and I had the urge to smack his arm again.
“Fine, if it’s a mess, it’s a beautiful mess.” I conceded.
“My dad will be so happy to hear that.” He shook his head at me and then walked over to the corner of the living room where Phoenix was still beating away at his drum set.
While Ryder pulled out an acoustic guitar and plugged it into his amp I looked down at my royal blue knit dress that stopped mid-thigh and my designer wedge boots. Then I thought about my worn out Chucks in my closet at home and decided something very crucial. I wasn’t either of those people. I was this person. Whoever lived in this house, that’s who I was.
And for a moment I felt this overwhelming peace, like suddenly I knew exactly who I was and what I wanted out of life. And surprisingly it was more than just escaping.
Suddenly I didn’t just want freedom, or escape.
I wanted a house, and people to love.
And someone that loved me.
But then the sounds of guitar strings being tuned broke through the incessant drum beats and I forced myself back to reality.
I shuddered at my thinking because this wasn’t an abstract daydream, I knew the person that lived here. It was weird that I wanted to be him.
Or have his life.
Or be a part of his life.
No. No… I just wasn’t used to being in a happy home. High school house parties were hardly the testament of a loving, doting family and any other time I was invited into a house was with someone from the circle.
So, that’s all this was. Nostalgia. Nostalgia for something I didn’t know.
“Hayden and Cole are coming later. And Hudson can’t make it tonight,” Ryder explained when Phoenix finally stopped messing around. “We thought you could try it out with us first, Red, and then when you’re comfortable with the rest of the band.”
“Sure,” I mumbled trying to get back to business. “I don’t think it will make a difference, but whatever you want. Do you at least have sheet music? I mean, I’m not good enough to just make something up.” My tone was impatient and abrupt. Panic flashed like strobe lights inside me and the unsettling feeling of wanting something I could never have seriously messed me up. This was more than uncomfortable, this was terrifying.
“No one expected you to be,” Ryder’s voice had that patient, gentle tone again, like he knew I was going through something just standing in his living room.
Damn him.
I wasn’t fragile. I lived through a lot of crap. I faced dangerous situations sometimes. Like real danger. He didn’t need to treat me with kid gloves.
“So, sheet music?” I pressed.
“It’s over on the counter,” Ryder gestured with his chin and I dutifully walked over to get the small stack of loose leaf music.
“Is Kenna coming tonight?” I heard Phoenix ask in a muffled voice once my back was turned.
Ryder didn’t respond, so I almost turned around to ask the question for Phoenix again when Phoenix’s voice made me stop and pretend to fiddle with something on this side of the room.
“Why not?” Phoenix’s voice dropped lower, almost so I couldn’t make it out.
Ryder replied with something I couldn’t understand from here and my curiosity peeked further.
“Why do you think that?” Phoenix asked, outraged. I heard Ryder shush him and I imagined his angry eyes shutting Phoenix right up. “You’re crazy man. She would never.”
More of Ryder’s mumbling. Phoenix made a half grunt, half scoffing noise and then suddenly banged his drumsticks down onto the head of his cymbal. The loud crashing broke up whatever they were talking about and practically burst my inner eardrum.
“Well, Ivy, you ready? Let’s get to this,” Ryder commanded suddenly as if the cymbal crash never happened.
Or maybe Phoenix did that all the time and Ryder was just used to it. I was not used to it and half expected my ear to be bleeding.
“Sure,” I answered unenthusiastically.
I walked over to where a decent Korg was set up facing the drum set. There were about a million buttons on the top of the instrument and the plastic keys were narrow and not enough octaves long. I struggled to hide my grimace at the foreign instrument while I placed my fingers into and an easy C cord and pressed down. The sudden loudness of the cord made me jump and release the keys. The sound immediately stopped, nothing resonated afterward, nothing happened, there just wasn’t sound anymore.
“You’ve played a keyboard before, right?” Ryder asked deadpan.
“Oh yeah, lots of times,” I lied but sounded obvious enough that I didn’t feel guilty about it.
I ignored the look Ryder and Phoenix were giving each other and took a breath to settle my nerves. I fiddled with the volume button, turning down the sound so it wouldn’t rival Phoenix’s cymbals and then pressed down on the same cord again. The keys were lighter than I was used to, there was no weight to press into, no heavy feeling of accomplishment. It was just…. easy.
With my fingers pressed down, I wiggled them around a little, getting used to the width of each key. When I finally felt like I could wrap my head around the plastic feel of the keys I lifted off and began moving my fingers in quick scales up and down the shortened octaves. After a while I flexed my fingers, loving the warm feeling tingling in each joint.
“Wow you’re really good,” Phoenix commented in awe.
“Phoenix, I was just warming up,” I sighed a bit exasperated.
“Fine, let’s hear it then,” Ryder commanded in his gravelly voice. I looked up and accidentally caught his eye. He was staring at me intently, waiting for me to wow him. Only…. I didn’t want to wow him. I wanted to walk across the room and kiss him. Like attack him with kisses.
What the hell?
Obviously those psychotic thoughts were enough to get me to move my ass. Instead of Ryder’s mouth, I attacked the keys instead, throwing myself into Piano Concerto by Tchaikovsky but immediately ran out of keys on the small set of octaves so I switched to something more contemporary but didn’t really have the range for that either so I improvised.
“That’s beautiful,” Ryder commented. He walked across the small practice space and stood hovering over me while my fingers moved nimbly across the cheap plastic keyboard.
“At times,” I murmured and then hit a section of harsh, discordant chords.
Ryder laughed softly at the notes being played before they were switched back to light and airy and sweet again. “What is it?”
I lifted my gaze from my fingers to meet his silver eyes without realizing it. “Romance,” I heard myself say out loud in an embarrassingly breathy voice. I cleared my throat and focused back on my hands. “Jean Sibelius.”