Chapter 12

Soundtrack for this chapter:

Hoobastank - "The Reason"

Chloe's apartment smelled of old books and freedom. The scent of lavender from her parents' house, which still seemed to haunt Skye, instantly dissipated here. She sat on the old couch, piled with cushions, curled up and hugging a mug of cooling tea. Outside, the sun was rising, but here, in this cozy sanctuary, the familiar twilight reigned.

Last night at The Echo played before her eyes. How she, pleased with their victory, had approached the bar and saw him. Ethan. The guy from the bridge. His faint but so sincere smile when he answered her, his embarrassment, his strange, musical fingers…

—Are you going to keep burning a hole in that mug, or are you going to tell me what you're thinking?—Chloe's voice was soft, but it pulled Skye from her stupor.

Chloe sat in the armchair opposite, slowly strumming her acoustic guitar. She wasn't looking at Skye, but she felt her state. She always did.

—Nothing,—Skye grumbled.—Just… thinking about the band. About Liam being pissed off again.

—Liam is always pissed off,—Chloe noted calmly.—You're not thinking about Liam. You're thinking about that bartender. I saw the way you were looking at him.

Skye snorted and turned away sharply, staring out the window.

—Come on, he's just… weird.

—You already said that. But when you look at him, something in you changes.—Chloe put the guitar aside and looked directly at Skye.—Your 'barbed wire' disappears somewhere. Maybe that's not a bad thing.

Skye was silent, fiddling with the hem of her T-shirt. Chloe was right. This guy, this Ethan, was breaking through her defenses without even knowing it.

—We're playing at The Echo again tomorrow,—she said quietly.

—I know,—Chloe nodded.—So invite him.

—What? Why?—Skye almost jumped up.—He listens to his classical music; he couldn't care less about our noise.

—Just ask,—Chloe shrugged.—It won't get any worse, right? What do you have to lose?

Skye looked at her friend. What did she have to lose? Her pride. Her protective shell. She risked being rejected, seeming pushy, weak… But the image of Ethan, of his vacant eyes in which she had seen a glimmer of something alive, wouldn't let her go.

She sighed, pulling out her phone.

—I don't have his number.

—But Ray does,—Chloe said with a faint smile, picking up her guitar again.

This was madness. She found Ray's contact and, taking a deep breath, pressed the call button.

—The Echo, Ray speaking,—a familiar hoarse voice sounded on the line, over the noise of the bar.

—Ray, hi, it's Skye. Listen, this is a stupid question… I need your bartender's number. Ethan's.

There was a pause on the line. Skye could almost hear Ray smirking.

—Ah, the one you were staring at yesterday?—his voice was full of cynical amusement.—I thought you preferred louder guys. Alright, write it down. But just so you know, he never answers. So if he doesn't, it's not my fault.

She quickly jotted down the numbers, muttered a "thanks," and ended the call. There was no turning back now. Chloe gave her an encouraging nod.

Skye opened a new message. Her fingers felt like wood. She started typing, deleting, rewriting, trying to find the right tone—an armor of sarcasm behind which she could hide her nervous anticipation.

Skye: "Hey, bartender. Hope your mysterious world of classics didn't suffer too much from yesterday's noise. We're playing in your hole again tomorrow. Like, at 'The Echo.' You have the day off, right? Come. If you're not scared, of course. It's gonna be loud."

She hit send and froze, staring at the screen.

The reply came almost instantly. Ethan: "How did you get my number?"

She exhaled, feeling a prick of relief. He had answered.

Skye: "I have my sources. Old man Ray was surprisingly cooperative. Said you never answer anyway, so there's nothing to lose."

Ethan: "Loud is an understatement."

He didn't refuse. He even tried to joke. She had to see this through.

Skye: "So are you coming or are you gonna chicken out?"

She sent it and squeezed her eyes shut. Too direct. Too Skye. He would definitely back out now.

She watched the blinking cursor, which seemed to mock her. But then…

Ethan: "I'll be there."

Skye let out the breath she felt like she had been holding for a full minute. A faint but absolutely genuine smile crept across her lips. He had accepted the challenge. This quiet, broken guy from the bridge had accepted her challenge.

She tossed the phone onto the couch as if it were burning her fingers and looked at Chloe.

—He's coming,—Skye said quietly, and to her own surprise, there was no usual cynicism in her voice, only a light, almost childlike amazement.

Chloe put her guitar aside and smiled widely. It was that rare, sincere smile she reserved only for Skye.

—I knew it. There's something about him, right? Something real. Not like Liam.

—He's just… different,—Skye shrugged, trying to hide her excitement behind her usual carelessness.—I don't know if that's good or bad.

—It's definitely not bad,—Chloe said confidently, getting up from the chair. She walked over to Skye and gently ruffled her hair.—You deserve someone who won't try to change you. Now—to bed. Big day tomorrow. You'll have to kick that bartender's ass.

Skye snorted, but a warmth spread through her chest.

—Thanks, Chlo. For… everything.

—Come on,—Chloe waved her hand.—What else are drummers for? To keep the rhythm and stop the vocalists from doing something completely stupid. Good night.

She went to her room, quietly closing the door behind her. Skye was left alone in the living room. She turned off the main light, leaving only a dim nightlight, and collapsed onto the couch, covering herself with an old, soft blanket that smelled like Chloe.

Silence enveloped her again, but this time it wasn't oppressive. Ethan was coming. He was coming to hear her. To see her. She didn't understand why it was so important. Why this guy, this walking shadow with eyes full of pain, had gotten to her so much. She was used to fighting, to protesting, to being "not like everyone else." But he… he was different. And maybe that was exactly what she had been missing.

She closed her eyes, and his image appeared again in her mind's eye. A faint smile played on her lips. For the first time in a long time, she fell asleep not with a feeling of anger or exhaustion, but with a strange, frightening, yet so desired feeling of hope.

The air in The Echo was thick and heavy, saturated with the smells of spilled beer, smoke, and something elusively electric—anticipation. Skye stood by the microphone stand, feeling its cold metal under her sweaty palms. She was supposed to tune into the wave of rage that fueled her music. But today, her internal compass was off. Instead of concentrating on the first chord, her gaze kept sliding, against her will, to the entrance door.

He's not coming. Of course, he's not coming, she told herself. Why would he? To listen to some girl from the bridge scream into a microphone?

—Who are we waiting for, queen? Your new fan?—Liam's voice, sounding next to her, was as caustic as acid. He stood casually leaning against an amplifier, his face twisted into a sarcastic smirk.

—You, Liam,—she retorted without turning her head.—Waiting for you to finally tune your guitar, not your ego.

—Oh, I'm tuned. Always. But you seem a bit distracted today. Afraid your sad pianist will get scared of loud noises?

Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. He had hit the mark. Too accurately. She shot a quick glance at Chloe behind the drum kit. Chloe met her gaze and gave a barely perceptible nod: "Breathe."

—One minute to showtime,—Ray commanded from behind the bar.

Skye cast one last desperate look at the entrance. Empty. The wave of disappointment was so strong it momentarily took her breath away. Whatever, she told herself, gripping the microphone so tightly her knuckles turned white. I don't care.

But it was a lie. And as Ray shouted the name of their band, "Phoenix!" into the microphone, her eyes scanned the room one more time.

And she saw him.

He was standing by the bar, like a gray, calm spot in the swirling chaos. He was looking directly at the stage. At her. A wave of relief nearly knocked her off her feet. But it was immediately followed by another—ice-cold panic. Now he was here. Now he would see. He would hear. She noticed Jess, the cheerful waitress, bustling around him. Jess was laughing, leaning in toward him, but Ethan just nodded politely, his eyes never leaving the stage.

The realization hit her like an electric shock. All her nervousness, all her fear, instantly coalesced into one tight, vibrating ball of energy. She stepped onto the stage, into the light, catching Chloe's understanding gaze. She approached the microphone, feeling Ethan's stare on her, almost tangible, like a physical touch.

And the world exploded with sound. The deafening, distorted riff from Liam's guitar, the powerful crash of Chloe's drums, the low, snarling bass from Marcus. The first chord ripped through the silence, and Skye felt the familiar, electric shiver run down her spine. She closed her eyes for a split second, inhaling the chaos, and unleashed the first lines of the song into the microphone.

Opening her eyes, she found him almost immediately. He wasn't just present; he was listening. Intently, focused, as if trying to decipher a code hidden in her scream. It made her sing even louder, even more desperately.

It was at that moment she felt something go wrong.

Liam's guitar roared, its volume suddenly jumping, threatening to bury her vocals. Skye shot him a bewildered look. But Liam didn't even glance her way, a malicious smirk playing on his lips. During the next verse, he stepped forward, invading her space. He played more complex, showy riffs than were necessary, turning their dirty punk rock into a stage for his ego.

Skye felt anger, hot and sharp, rising from within. Not now. Not in front of him. She gripped the mic stand and channeled all her rage into her voice. But the peak was the guitar solo. Instead of the short, powerful solo they had rehearsed, Liam launched into a long, winding shred. He wasn't playing for the song; he was playing for that guy at the bar. He was screaming with his guitar: "Look, I'm the one in charge here. This is my band. This is my girl."

Skye turned away. She caught Chloe's eye, who continued to hold down a flawless, powerful rhythm, like an anchor in this storm of vanity. When Liam's solo finally fizzled out, Skye stepped back to the mic and hissed the words of the final verse into the deafening silence. Now they weren't just song lyrics. They were her answer to Liam.

The song ended with a sudden, deafening chord. The crowd erupted in applause, oblivious to the war that had just played out on stage. Skye, breathing heavily, stared at Liam, and her gaze promised that this conversation was not over.

But her peripheral vision stubbornly clung to the motionless figure at the bar. In the middle of the next song, her eyes found Ethan again. And then she saw it.

His hands. They were resting on the sticky surface of the bar. The fingers of his right hand were moving almost imperceptibly. It wasn't a nervous twitch. His long, thin fingers were silently gliding across the wood, as if on invisible keys. They pressed, held, shifted, finding harmonies that didn't exist in their loud, ragged music. He wasn't just tapping the rhythm. He was picking out chords. He was playing an imaginary piano.

In that moment, Skye's world narrowed to that small, secret dance of fingers. The roar of Liam's guitar faded to a distant hum. All she saw were those hands. Her anger at Liam took a backseat, becoming petty and insignificant. It was replaced by a sharp, almost painful curiosity. This guy, this walking apathy—there was music living inside him. Complex, quiet, but alive.

She kept singing, but now her performance had a new meaning. It was the background for this quiet, secret concert. She looked at him, and her eyes no longer held a challenge or pity. Only pure, deep curiosity. Who was he, this guy who stood on the verge of suicide, but whose fingers still remembered how to create harmony from chaos?

The last chord was still vibrating in the air when Skye, breathing heavily, lowered the microphone. She jumped off the stage, pushing through the crowd. Liam had already disappeared somewhere, and she was glad. She didn't want to talk to anyone right now. Except for one person.

She saw him in the same spot where she had left him—at the bar. He hadn't left.

—So? Are your ears still ringing?—the words escaped on their own. Her voice sounded quieter and more uncertain than she had intended.

Ethan slowly turned his head. Skye held her breath. There was no emptiness in his eyes. There was something new. A mixture of amazement, confusion, and… something else she couldn't recognize.

—They're not ringing,—he answered. And then the corners of his lips twitched and slowly crept upward, forming a faint, almost imperceptible, but absolutely real smile. That smile pierced Skye through and through.

—Liar,—she smirked, more confidently now.—I saw you wince during Liam's solo. Even I wanted to plug my ears.

Ethan smiled again, a little more noticeably. —I thought it was part of the style.

—Part of his ego,—Skye corrected, rolling her eyes.—So what does the classical music expert have to say? Is our noise completely hopeless?

He looked at her seriously, thoughtfully. —It was… loud. And chaotic. And… honest.

"Honest." The word caught her off guard. —What, there's no honesty in your classical music?—she teased.

—There is. It's just different. There, the pain is packaged in perfect harmony. With you… it just exists. Without packaging.

Skye stared at him, stunned. He got it. He understood the very essence of what she was doing.

—You have interesting fingers,—she suddenly changed the subject.—You play, don't you?

He tensed for a moment, his smile vanishing. —I used to. A long time ago.

—Ray said you're a pianist,—she decided to go all in.

—Ray talks a lot.

—Only when he's asked about something interesting,—Skye countered.—So, you gave it up completely? Decided pouring beer was more promising?

A familiar shadow of pain flickered in his eyes, but it was mixed with defiance. —Maybe. At least here, no one expects a sonata from me.

It was the first time she had heard a note of self-irony in his voice. —Alright, pianist,—she said, taking a step back.—I gotta go.

She expected him to just nod and disappear. But he held her gaze. —Thanks,—he said quietly.

—For what? For nearly deafening you?

—For…—he hesitated, searching for words.—For the music.

—See you around, bartender,—she tossed over her shoulder. She turned and walked away without looking back. She could feel his eyes on her back. And in that gaze, there was no longer emptiness. There was an echo. The echo of their shared, yet-to-be-played melody.

The dormitory door creaked open, letting Ethan into the stuffy corridor. He collapsed onto the chair at the desk in his dark room. Skye's music still rang in his ears, like a phantom echo. He could hear the distorted riffs, the powerful drum beats, and her voice—hoarse, piercing, breaking into a scream, but so painfully honest.

Her image stood before his eyes: ash-blonde hair, ripped jeans, and the way her fingers gripped the microphone tightly, as if it were her only support. He saw in that gesture not just aggression, but a desperate determination to hold on.

Ethan looked down at his own hands. And suddenly, as if against his will, the fingers of his right hand twitched almost imperceptibly. He froze. Then they moved again. Ring, middle, index… they began to quietly tap a rhythm on the wood. The same rhythm Chloe had been beating out. The same one Skye had been screaming to.

His fingers, as if waking from a long slumber, began their silent concert. They slid across the desk, playing imaginary keys, finding chords that could complement her furious melody. It happened on its own. His musical essence, which he had thought was dead, had responded to her challenge.

The pain hadn't gone away. The memory of his brother was still a bleeding wound. But now, alongside that pain, a thin but definite thread of hope had appeared. It was as fragile as a spider's web, but he felt it as clearly as the fatigue in his body.

The silence in the room was no longer deafening. Now it was filled with this silent rhythm. Ethan didn't know what tomorrow would bring. But he knew one thing.

He wanted to hear that music again