Page 74 of The Sound of Him

I scroll through my music app for a minute, a part of me aching to be able to flip through my record collection instead. I miss the nights when I could unwind with a vinyl and a good bourbon. There’s just something about the aesthetic that always did it for me, like I stepped out of my skin and settled into a version of myself that didn’t have to do anything but exist surrounded by music. I feel like the adult I always pictured myself being on those nights.

Here, especially these past few days, I feel more and more like the little kid dropped into a world too bright, too open, too kind.

I wonder if Matt would like vinyls better, too. If he’d enjoy rifling through my collection, feeling the worn sleeves beneath his fingertips until he finds the perfect album. The perfect song. Something to soothe him, or to make him smile, or to make him cry. Something to put words to the feelings inside of him.

I can’t give him that, not here, but I can give him the next best thing.

I fall back on my go-to playlist for when I need music more than I need air, full of the kind of songs that settle right in your soul. I know the perfect song when I see it - three down from the top of the list. One of my favorites, sticking with me from that first night with Keaton when I heard it on the radio, the words having felt like they were meant just for me. They can be meant for him, too, though. I’d love nothing more than for them to be meant for him too.

Just as Ben E. King starts to croon about not being afraid when the night comes, I see it out of the corner of my eye - Matt climbing over the arm of the couch and lowering himself into the hiding space.

I duck my head, hiding another smile.

For the first time in days, I don’t need the pills in my desk. Not for the anxiety attacks or the flashbacks. Not to stay awake.

For the first time in days, I remember what it’s like to feel safe.

Chapter Eleven

Matt

Music isn’t something I ever really thought about in captivity. Not the kind of music that people would listen to on the radio, at least. I didn’t think about the pop songs the DJ played at our school dances. The closest I got was when I thought about mamá singing canciones de cunas to me, her slightly off-key voice telling tales of little white doves or five little wolves. I tried not to think about that often, though. It hurt.

It hurt so much.

There were songs that would play at the compound, or during parties I was brought to, but they were just background noise.

There was music the night I - the night Master Mica - he - the night he - he -

There was music that night, but I don’t remember it. I wasn’t listening.

Ace clearly likes music. All kinds, it seems. Well,nearlyall kinds. He doesn’t like disco - except for ABBA, which I don’t have strong feelings about either way - or country - except for the bluesy stuff, whatever that means.

There are a lot of songs that I don’t recognize, some of them slow ones that wind around the air until softly coming to an end, others that pop and bloom and bounce, even ones that are growly and angry and just shy of harsh on the ears. I like a lot of them. Some I could live without. None of them are bad enough to throw anything at him, though.

I wonder if he made that offer because Dr. Singh made it to him once.Does he have to see him like everyone else?I know Nolan has been worried because Maison has been refusing to get help from either doctor here, and Casey once mentioned that Jake was in Dr. Singh’s office but grumpy about it. I don’t know why Maison gets away with no therapy while Jake was forced to, or if maybe Nolan or Casey - or both of them - got it wrong. Ace did mention when he showed me to the office that time with the apple that he didn’t want to have to talk to Dr. Singh, but that didn’t mean never.

Then again, maybe Dr. Singh didn’t teach Ace about the throwing thing. Maybe Ace is who taught Dr. Singh.

The thought makes me smile, which is weird. The idea of a grown man throwing things shouldn’t be amusing. It should be terrifying. It should feel angry and aggressive and dangerous.

Except, nothing about Ace is angry or aggressive or dangerous. Nothing about him is terrifying.How could there be when he’s currently singing along to a song by a 90’s boy band, the words muffled by the string of licorice hanging out of his mouth?

If there’s anything wrong with him, it’s that he’s tired. He’s good at hiding it. He’s probably had a lot of practice. Once you get a certain level of tired, though, there isn’t a way to hide it any longer. It’s like the exhaustion gets inside of your bones and festers. It shows in a person’s eyes. In their shoulders. In their breathing.

His big smiles and little wrinkles around his eyes and high energy all help mask it, but not enough. If I hadn’t alreadythought so before, watching him as each song passes would have confirmed it. The more he gets distracted, the more he sinks into his chair. His blinks sometimes get slow and heavy, his head a little wobbly on his neck, before he’ll double click on a different song with higher energy and bob his head to the beat until he’s seemed to shake a little bit of energy into himself.

On top of all of that, his snack stash is nearly all sugar, his mini-fridge is filled with energy drinks, and his coffee thermos is big.

I find myself wondering a lot about him, especially during the quiet songs when everything in him calms and the mask slips a little more.

Have I ever seen someone else in here, covering the computer and watching the video feeds? Do the other operatives come and relieve him so he can rest? Or is the work not critical enough to have to be watched at all times? But if that’s the case, why does he spend so much time in here, clearly exhausted but pushing through it? Is it him hiding in his own way? Is it because he has a hard time sleeping? Does he have bad dreams? Does he have things that play along his eyelids every time he closes his eyes, things he’d rather make himself sick with exhaustion to avoid having to see?

The thought comes that he might have the same weight on his shoulders as Travis or Jake.

Was Ace someone else’s undercover operative at some point? Did he have to do things? Did he stand by a slave while they suffocated at their feet?

Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but my gut tells me he’s not like the others. Not in that way, at least.