Page 67 of Island Girl

“Why?”

“I don't know. It felt…selfish, I guess. Like if I was enjoying something, I wasn't focused enough on her. Like my happiness was taking something away from her care.” She shook her head. “That sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.”

“It doesn't sound ridiculous. It sounds like love. Misguided, maybe, but love.”

“My father called it bargaining. He thinks I believed that if I sacrificed enough, I could keep her alive.”

Paula was quiet for a moment. “Did you believe that?”

“I don't know. Maybe on some level I couldn't admit to myself.” Merritt set down her wine glass. “It didn't work, obviously. She died anyway. And I'd given up years of my life for nothing.”

“Not for nothing. You were with her. You loved her.”

“I did. But I lost myself in the process.”

The sun touched the water now, spreading orange light across the waves. Paula watched it, her expression thoughtful.

“Ray used to play,” she said quietly.

Merritt turned to look at her. “What?”

“Music. Ray used to play music.” Paula kept her eyes on the horizon. “Piano, guitar. He sang too. He was good. Really good.”

“I had no idea.”

“No one does. He stopped when he came back from his last deployment. Just…stopped. Gave away his guitar, never touched a piano again. It was like that part of him died over there.”

Merritt felt something shift in her chest. “What happened to him?”

“I don't know the details. He won't talk about it. But whatever he saw, whatever he did, it broke something in him.” Paula finally turned to face her. “For years, I've watched my brother disappear into himself. He doesn't talk, doesn't connect, doesn't feel anything he can't drown in whiskey.”

“But he comes to Shorebirds.”

“He does. Every night, almost. Sits in that corner with his drink he never touches.” Paula paused. “And then you showed up.”

“Me?”

“Your music, Merritt. Something happens to him when you play. I've seen it. That first night, he left in the middle of your set. I thought it was a bad sign. But then he came back. And he keeps coming back.”

Merritt remembered that night. The way he'd stood up abruptly, walked out without looking at anyone. She'd thought she'd done something wrong.

“He's spoken to me a few times,” she said. “Just a few words. 'Good music.' Things like that.”

“You don't understand what that means.” Paula's voice was thick. “Ray hasn't spoken to anyone in two years. Not me, not his doctors, not anyone. And then you start playing, and he finds words again.”

The weight of this settled over Merritt. She didn't know what to do with it.

“I'm not telling you this to put pressure on you,” Paula said quickly. “I'm not asking you to fix him. No one can fix him. Ijust…” She took a breath. “I wanted you to know. Because I think your music matters to him. And I think you deserve to understand why.”

“He was a musician.”

“He was. A real one. The kind who played because he couldn't not play.” Paula smiled sadly. “When we were kids, he'd sit at our grandmother's piano for hours. Taught himself everything. Our parents couldn't afford lessons, so he just figured it out. By the time he was sixteen, he was playing in bars, lying about his age to get gigs.”

“What kind of music?”

“Everything. Rock, folk, blues. He could play anything.” Paula's eyes grew distant. “He had this voice. Low and rough, like gravel and honey mixed together. People would stop talking when he sang. The whole room would go quiet.”

Merritt thought about her own music, the way silence fell over Shorebirds when she played. She'd felt that power, that connection. And Ray had once had it too.