Page 131 of Dirty Chorus

She’s crying so hard it hurts my own chest. It makes me want to sob, as she breathes hard. She’s drenched in sweat as she mutters the words, “He...he had a gun.” Her chin trembles. “Brody... he... he... put a gun to my head, and…” She leans forward sobbing. “He told me I had to leave you, and he...” I swallow hard as this is all new to me. “He pulled the trigger.”

“It’s over now, it was a dream.”

I wipe away tears streaming down her eyes. “There wasn’t a bullet, and he said next time it would be you.”

“He’s in jail, and he’s not going to touch me, or you again.” I grasp her upper arm pulling her into my chest and I rest my chin against the top of her head. Her nails claw into my shirt as she inhales deep breaths.

I can’t tell if it’s her heart racing, or if it’s mine that I’m feeling. Within a few minutes of rubbing her back, she finally lifts her head then her eyes, shining with that beautiful silver glint.

“I’m sorry for hurting you,” she searches my face, “and for keeping you up at night.”

I meet her gaze, hoping she can see how much I love her. “You don’t need to apologize.” I lean in and give her a soft, reassuring kiss. Something to anchor her back to this room, to me. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Chapter 62

Charlie

There’s a bald spot near the side of my head. Payton keeps telling me it’s not that noticeable but the fact I see it bothers me. It’s small, but obvious enough that it stares back at me every time I look in the mirror. I have a scar there so I get it. It may never fully patch itself up, but I’ve waited forever for my hair to grow back just a tiny bit. It has, but ugh it looks weird every time I style it.

Today I’ve finally decided I’m fed up. I’m gonna hack it off. The barber drapes the cape around my shoulders, the fabric is rough against my neck. My stomach flips when the scissors click for the first time. A lock of my hair falls to the floor, then another. The fact it’s not just an inch or two, it’s actually a good foot of hair just tumbling to the floor, makes my heart race.

I don’t think I have ever had my hair this short – it’s about chin-length. I’m halfway through the torture when Noah appears, sliding into the chair beside mine. The barber greets him, like this is something they planned, and starts prepping his clippers.

I blink at him in the mirror. “Excuse me, what are you doing?”

Noah smirks, tugging at the scrunchy holding his hair up. The dark strands tumble down past his shoulders, wavy and wild like always. “What does it look like?”

“You’re cutting it?” My mouth falls open. “You said you would never cut it. It’s like your prized possession or something.”

“I kinda choke on it every time I sing,” he shrugs, glancing at me in the reflection. “I figured it's time to try something new.”

I watch as the barber gathers his hair, scissors snipping away. The first cut makes me gasp. I have to slam my eyes shut as the barbers laugh with one another over my reaction. But when they finish his hair, it’s still parted down the center, and there are a bit of curls on the ends that make my heart skip a beat.

“I can see your face.” I think my eyes lit up.

He glances at me, that familiar little half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So you like it?” He glances back in the mirror combing a hand through his hair, tilting his head to check how it looks on each side.

“Yeah, I like it.”

“You look beautiful too.” I think I’m blushing all over as he gives me the biggest grin on the planet.

Chapter 63

Noah

Ican’t believe it’s the middle of April. But it is.

I don’t even bother turning on the light when I step inside the apartment. My whole body feels like wet concrete. Studio days always go late, but tonight felt endless. My voice is raw, throat scraped like someone took sandpaper to it. We ran the same verse at least thirty times, maybe more. I know we’re close but close isn’t good enough. Not for me anyways. I hate the fact I'm a perfectionist, and it’s worse knowing those who follow us are wanting something they can listen to on repeat.

The door clicks shut behind me and I toss my keys into the bowl on the entrance table. I dig through my pockets pulling out my wallet too. All I can think about is face planting into the bed.

Charlie’s curled up on the couch under her weighted blanket, a soft flickering light from the TV washes her in pale blue. Some documentary plays, a narrator talking about something in a calm voice I’m too tired to catch. I sit down next to her, sinking into the cushions and throw my arm over the back of the couch.

“Hey pretty lady,” I say, meeting her gaze that’s fixated on the television. “I tried calling earlier.”

She digs her fingers in the cushions until she finds the remote, and pauses the show. The room goes quiet except for the fridge humming and the crickets outside.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to ignore you,” she says. “I promise...” Her eyes are puffy. Not just from crying – I can tell she's tired too. She doesn’t sleep well and neither do I. She pulls the blanket tighter around her. “After therapy I just fucking lost it.”