Grace Note: Part One
Masterpost
---
When Ryan makes his way into the kitchen, the linoleum floor cold underneath his bare feet, one of his long fingers reaches out and presses the power button to the radio, just like every morning. He’s already dressed for the day: casual yet professional clothes. His hair is mostly under control, though occasionally it falls stubbornly in front of his eyes, and in his left hand, he’s holding a pair of plain black socks. As he shuffles across the floor, moving just about the same pace as he normally does, the white noise of the radio fizzes out as a soothing voice takes over.
Ryan busies himself with the coffee machine, carefully measuring out the correct amount of grinds to put in before he starts to pour himself a bowl of cereal. The music is just a background noise really, but it’s part of his routine now.
He sits down at the kitchen table, spreading the newspaper out in front of him. A strong beam of early sunlight filters through the slightly crooked blinds, casting a bright stream of light, illuminating part of the table, leaving the sides in relative shadow.
On the right hand column of the open newspaper, Ryan’s eyes skim over the smaller headlines of what had happened the day before. Little of it concerns him. None of it really affects him, but there’s something so calming about sitting in one’s kitchen in the early morning with a paper spread out, coffee brewing in the background, the steady drip getting lost amongst the tones of a subdued tenor. Something so very grown up.
Ryan flits through the paper, eyes lingering now and then on a couple of words that jump out or at a picture as he slowly eats his cereal. He reads about bombings and financial disasters and political unrest. He only reads the headlines of these because he doesn’t want to delve deeper into something like that. Doesn’t want the burden.
When he hears the dripping of the coffee stop, Ryan stands up and pours it into his travel mug, knowing that if he sits down to drink it at his apartment, he’ll be late for work. While Pete may be lenient with many things (far too many things if Ryan’s honest with himself), he doesn’t take well to tardiness.
Sugar is added to the coffee, just one packet, and Ryan stirs it in with a long spoon, rinsing it off directly afterwards along with his cereal bowl so that he won’t come home later to dirty dishes.
The music in the background fades, and the voice of the radio show host comes on. He’s actually a pretty decent guy. Ryan had met him a couple of times at various events. They tend to run in the same circles, since they’re both in the music industry, of sorts. At least, they both comment on the music industry, never really having the time or skill or that something special that makes the people on the radio actually singing their songs, playing their instruments, so special.
“And now for the latest in the rumor mill,” Ryan hears the announcer say. The announcer’s name is Patrick, and if Ryan remembers correctly, Pete thinks he’s some sort of secret genius or something. Ryan’s not too sure about that, but Patrick plays decent music and doesn’t waste people’s time by talking too much about non-important things. Of course, Ryan does recognize how important scandals in the music world are. Hell, most of the people’s jobs at the magazine he works at depend on them.
Ryan finishes cleaning out the dishes, laying them on the drying rack. He doesn’t have a dishwasher. Not because he can’t afford one or because he thinks they’re bad for the environment, no, it’s just that Ryan finds something soothing about taking the time to wash out his dishes, letting his hands warm up under the water, washing something clean.
He makes his way toward the front door, the radio still on in the background, still audible to Ryan as he grabs his shoes, bringing them back into the kitchen. He sits down on the chair, pulling on his socks and shoes, carefully lacing up each one.
“According to some sources,” Patrick’s voice says, carrying through the all too empty kitchen, “trouble may be on the horizon for the popular band Industry of Being.” It’s times like these, in the early morning, when everything is so quiet, that Ryan wishes that his landlord allowed pets. Patrick’s voice is the only thing that fills the space.
Patrick goes on to talk about how apparently some band is breaking up. Ryan’s heard of them before, but he doesn’t pay them much attention. His area of expertise is more centralized on older music, the 60s and 70s. He is in charge of Linguistic Integrity. Really, that is just a way to say that he is supposed to make sure that no one makes any asinine grammar mistakes.
“Hopefully, all this talk is just rumor,” Patrick goes on as Ryan gathers up his stuff for the day. He moves around the small kitchen, taking small sips from his travel mug as he puts everything back into place. “It would truly be a huge loss to the music community.” Ryan wonders briefly as he packs up his bag why Patrick would use the word community. He likes the idea, it’s not that, but he just doesn’t think it fits.
“Just to remind you what we’d all be missing, I’m going to play you one of their more underrated songs,” Patrick says, voice low and soothing. Ryan can see why he got the job. “This is Industry of Being with “Grace Notes”.”
Ryan grabs his jacket from behind the chair just as the first notes of the song starts, even guitar chords ringing out, a smooth voice layering overtop only a couple of beats later. There isn’t much production to their sound, not a lot of distracting noise, and there’s something about the singer’s voice that hits Ryan, making a shiver run down his spine.
He stands there for a moment just listening to the radio in the middle of the kitchen, listening as the singer’s voice weaves his melody, his voice raising higher and higher, creating an almost unearthly sound, before his eye catches the kitchen clock.
He’ll be late if he doesn’t start moving.
Shaking his head as if it’ll banish the tones from his mind, Ryan turns off the radio, grabs his stuff, and makes his way out of the apartment, making sure to lock the door securely behind him.
It’s strange, but even as he rides the elevator down to the first floor, bland music in the background, he can still hear the voice of the singer from the radio, holding that last note, and even as he makes his way to his car, the tone lingers.
---
Ryan has his own office. It’s quite rare in the magazine world, but Pete had pulled a few strings, and less than a month into working at the magazine, Ryan found himself with his own office. And his own assistant.
The phone rings twice before Ryan picks it up. “Pete is here to talk to you,” his secretary, Shane, says through the receiver. “It’s about your next article, I think.” In the background, Ryan can hear Pete’s voice muffled followed by laughter. “He says it’s most definitely not going to end with him ravaging you on your desk. Probably.” The laughter is back again, and Ryan takes in a deep breath and exhales audibly. “Oh, and your mother called again.” His breath chokes.
“I’ll call her later,” he lies, and then coughs. “Tell Pete to come in.”
There are certain benefits to having your boss like you, like having an assistant and an office and a choice of subject matter, but Ryan is getting a little sick of Pete’s innuendoes. Even if they are all just in fun.
It doesn’t help that Shane seems to find Pete’s antics hilarious. Ryan knows now that he should have never used Shane as a decoy that one time Pete invited him out to a bar. Now they are almost inseparable.
Ryan quickly tidies up his already immaculate desk, though his one pencil was dangerously close to being out of place. He corrects it with a quick flick of his finger, looking up in time to see Pete coming through the door, near-manic grin firmly in place, but that is normal for Pete.
“How’s my favorite journalist?” Pete asks, throwing himself down into one of the chairs situated at forty-five degree angles to Ryan’s desk. As he sits down, his leg knocks against the desk, moving the pencil.
Ryan’s hands itch.
“Good,” Ryan answers back automatically. He’s learned that people don’t really want the true answer when they ask that question. Well, except for Gerard, but Ryan pays him for that empathy. “And I don’t think you could consider me a journalist, Pete. I’m just a glorified editor, aren’t I?”
Pete shrugs. “You also write,” he reminds Ryan.
Ryan grimaces, thinking about his small little segment he’s allowed to do every month, just a couple of lines about meaningful lyrics of a certain year or artist. Sometimes he wishes that he could do more than that. He doesn’t mention that to Pete now, though. Pete knows, and Ryan, Ryan’s still waiting to prove himself.
“So, what do you want?” Ryan asks, eyeing the pencil that is now completely out of place. He contemplates letting it lie there, just to see if he could stand it, but he reaches out to correct the situation. He possibly has control issues. But he’s working on it.
Pete smiles and stretches out in the chair, lounging, throwing one leg up to rest against the other open seat. Ryan wonders if Pete’s shoe will leave a mark. “Just wanted to check in with you and see how your segment is coming for this month. And see if you’ve started going over Saporta’s article. Remember to keep an eye out for vulgar insinuations.” He scoffs, obviously still not over that issue with all the angry readers. Pete still doesn’t really see what the problem was with Gabe’s description. Sometimes fuckable is a necessary adjective.
“Gabe sent me the first draft,” Ryan says. “It looks pretty good. Though I would check with some of his quotes. I don’t really know if someone would say something so provocative about an elderly nun. You might want to have the fact checkers look into that.”
Pete nods. “And your Dylan lyrics?”
Ryan sighs. “It’s done. You know, Pete, I could handle writing something else, too. We still have a week until deadline, and I’m done with everything for this issue.” He looks up at Pete with cautious eyes, willing himself not to get his hopes up. “I could actually do a full fledged article. Something where I use my own words, you know, and don’t just copy artists’ thoughts verbatim.”
“You put your own thoughts into the lyric analysis,” Pete objects. Ryan raises an eyebrow, and Pete relents. “Ryan, I know you think that you could handle an article, but sometimes your writing seems to be a little…” he breaks off, searching for an adjective. “A little stream-of-consciousness-esque. Hell, it’s almost as if you write in song lyrics.”
Frowning, Ryan argues, “But if you would just give me a chance!”
“Do you really think you could handle it?” Pete asks. “Handle actually interviewing someone? Getting the story?” He gives Ryan a look. “Journalism is a hard business, kid. Sometimes you have to be an asshole to get what you need. I just don’t think that you have it in you.”
“You don’t know if you don’t let me try,” Ryan points out. “Come on, Pete. I’ve worked here for three years, and I’ve done everything that you’ve asked of me. I write what you tell me to write, I edit what you tell me to edit, but for once, I’d like to do something different.” He pauses. “I’d like to do something for myself.”
Pete seems to be mulling over what Ryan says, and after a beat he nods. “Okay,” he relents. “Not this issue, obviously, but when we start delegating stories for the next issue, I’ll keep you in mind for a feature story.”
“Really?” Ryan can barely believe it; can barely believe that Pete is actually willing to give him a chance to prove himself.
“Well try it out,” Pete says. He gives Ryan a smile, one that Ryan knows well. Pete, unlike Ryan, isn’t shy with who he lets in. “I know that you’ll work your ass off to make it perfect. You won’t let me down.”
Pete swings his legs down from the chair set beside him, getting to his feet. Ryan can already see the faint dirt marks on his chair, and he knows that once Pete leaves and he actually goes to look at the upholstery, it’ll mean at least five minutes of scrubbing out the mark.
“I won’t,” Ryan promises. “I won’t let you down.”
“Good,” Pete responds, moving towards the door, opening it so that the noises from the office drift in: phones ringing and people shouting and the ever-present noise of dozens of hands upon computer keys, typing.
Ryan watches as Pete leaves and the door closes behind him, a soft click that resonates through the now silent room. Without the noise from outside and without Pete filling the silence with chatter, the room is quiet.
It’s nice.
Ryan gets up from his chair and rounds the desk, frowning as he looks down at the dirt mark on the chair. He sighs and goes to get his cleaning supplies.
---
The coffee house is crowded when Ryan comes in. Not really more so than usual, but still, sometimes the sheer amount of people together in one place is a little bit too much for Ryan to handle. Yet Ryan always comes to this coffee house, this exact coffee house, every day during his mid morning break. It’s only a half hour, but Ryan likes to get out of the office and be amongst other people.
He likes to sit down with his cup of coffee and watch the people around him, imagine that maybe he is that big time reporter, that reporter that he knows somewhere deep down he could never really be, and he was there to get their stories. Get to know them, make them feel like someone cared about them.
He watches, listens to people’s conversations. He hears all about a mother’s complaints about the school district and how her child really is gifted. He listens to a man and woman talk about their future, the man stuttering over every other word, and Ryan wonders if the girl can hear the hesitance in each syllable. Probably not. People have a tendency to ignore what they want.
Ryan watches and listens, but he doesn’t make eye contact. He’s careful about that. He’s not there to connect to anyone.
He’s there to observe.
---
“When’s the last time you talked to your mother?” Gerard asks, holding a bright pink pad of paper.
He’s a little unconventional, as far as psychiatrists go. It isn’t just his choice of notebooks that are odd. Ryan remembers the first time he came in to see Dr. Way (who had immediately told him to fuck formality and call him by his first name) and Gerard plopped down on the floor, back up against a rather odd wall painting that Ryan then learned Gerard had done himself.
Still, though, the floor gets a little uncomfortable after awhile, but Ryan doesn’t want to look down at his doctor for an hour twice a week.
Gerard’s office is pretty large. Large enough that Ryan is fully aware of all the openness surrounding him. The walls are painted a dark blue, so dark that it almost seems black when you first see it, but the splashes of vibrant colors on the rows and rows of artwork make the room brighter. The windows are usually covered in thin blinds, blinds that only let in a little bit of sunlight, and in the one corner, Gerard’s desk sits regally, a mess of paper and pens and God knows what else scattered on top of it.
It’s really difficult to stop himself from straightening everything up.
“Ryan,” Gerard prompts. “When was the last time you talked to your mother?”
He has to think a little about the answer. Well, not really the answer, but whether or not he’s going to give it truthfully. “Christmas,” Ryan mutters. There’s something about Gerard that makes it almost impossible for Ryan to lie to him. It’s probably how Gerard never holds back the more unsavory aspects of his own past.
Ryan doesn’t know how many shrinks are admitted ex-drug addicts, but Gerard never kept any secrets from Ryan. In theory, it should help Ryan share his own.
“Christmas? When you only called because you thought that that’s what the holiday season is about?” Gerard asks, frowning a little, and Ryan feels terrible that he caused that. It was true though, Ryan had only picked up the phone, after three previous months of silence, to wish her a merry Christmas. He had hung up when his mother put his father on the line.
“I hate lying to her,” Ryan defends. He looks at the wall. One of the pictures looks like an explosion. Or maybe it’s supposed to be a flower. He can’t really tell. “I can’t talk to her without feeling like it’s a lie.”
“You aren’t the one who lies, Ryan,” Gerard says. His voice is strong, sure, and Ryan wishes that sometimes he had that amount of conviction himself.
Ryan looks down at his fingers, down at his long, pale fingers just to keep himself from looking up at Gerard. “I know that,” Ryan says, voice quiet, and he’s sure that the doubt of his words screams out. “But who’s to say that it’s not in me waiting to come out one day?”
“You’re not your father.”
It’s been nearly two years in therapy, sessions twice a week, but Ryan knows that an appointment won’t pass by without Gerard saying those words.
“I know,” Ryan says, saying it because that’s what he’s supposed to say. What he always says.
Gerard looks doubtful, but he doesn’t comment more about it. Ryan’s grateful. He doesn’t need to hear the whole speech again.
“Fine,” Gerard responds. “How about we talk about your friends?”
Ryan thinks for a moment of Alex. He thinks of Zack and Joe. He thinks of the people he talks to at work. Of Pete and Shane. He doesn’t know if he would really qualify any of them as his friends.
“I was invited to a party over the weekend,” Ryan says.
Scribbling down on the bright pink notepad, Gerard smiles a little. “Good, that’s great, Ryan. Real progress. How did it go?”
Something inside Ryan tightens, but he manages to keep eye contact with Gerard. “I didn’t go,” he admits. He had had every intention on showing up for a little while, mingling with people, but when he had started getting ready for the party, re-reading Pete’s text message of the directions, he just couldn’t find the strength to leave the apartment. It had all seemed like too much.
“Why?” Ryan wonders if he’s imagining the frustration in Gerard’s voice, but he wouldn’t be that surprised if he wasn’t. He can understand.
“I didn’t want to deal with people,” Ryan responds honestly. “I didn’t want to deal with a party where everyone would talk to me and pretend to give a shit but not really care about what I’m saying at all.” He bites his lower lip. “I don’t want to have to deal with that stupid shit again.”
Ryan knows he’s like the fucking poster boy for daddy issues, but that doesn’t mean that knowing that makes the struggle go away.
Gerard gets up from the floor, uncrossing his legs and pushing himself up with pale arms. He crosses the room and goes to his desk, opening the drawers noisily, and Ryan sits awkwardly still on the floor. The balance is way off with Gerard up and so tall above him, so Ryan stands up, too.
“I want you to try something,” Gerard says, still rummaging through his desk, the materials inside clanging against each other until he finds what he’s looking for, holding a sheet of paper above his head victoriously, grinning.
He walks back towards Ryan, and Ryan frowns slightly. “What do you mean something?” He’s suspicious. Usually is whenever someone phrases their sentences like that.
Gerard hands over the piece of paper, and Ryan’s eyes wash over the print. The words, big and bold, announce classes at the Civic Center, and Ryan looks up at Gerard with wide eyes.
“I think it would be a good idea,” Gerard says carefully. “Ryan, you need to start getting out among other people more.”
Ryan opens his mouth to object, but Gerard cuts him off.
“Work is great, Ryan, but you need a life outside of that. You can’t just live in your words and the words of others.” The look Gerard is giving him makes something almost ache inside Ryan, so he nods.
“I’ll give it a try,” he promises, eyes flitting back to the paper, looking over the schedule. “Some of the classes don’t seem so bad,” he allows.
Gerard’s smile is almost frightening, it’s so big, and Ryan immediately feels a mixture of emotions: happy that he was able to make Gerard grin like that, but terrified at the prospect of a class full of strangers.
“It’ll be good for you,” Gerard assures. “Trust me.”
---
The Civic Center is an old building near the bay, and Ryan is pretty sure that at some point, it was a school for delinquents. Or at least, that’s what the drab exterior makes him think of. The building is huge and a depressing gray, but there are no wire fences, so Ryan reigns in his stupid wandering brain and walks in through the double doors.
It doesn’t take him too long to find the right room, which is a little surprising considering just how many rooms there are in this place. But he follows the signs, and before he knows it, before he can even think about scurrying away down a dim hallway and back out to the street again, Ryan’s standing in front of a room that has a bright neon green sign on it that states far too excitedly for Ryan’s understanding Pottery!
When he walks into the room, the commotion doesn’t stop and everyone doesn’t turn to stare like he had feared, no, but Ryan does spend an aching five seconds just standing by the door until he jolts himself out of his stagnation and moves further into the room.
There are tables set up around the room. Small tables with three chairs around each one, and of course there is at least one person at every single one, so Ryan doesn’t have the option of sitting by himself. He looks around, taking in the various people. None of them seem particularly horrible, but he ends up sitting down at a table with two girls around his age.
“Hi,” one of them says warmly. She has long strawberry blonde hair and a kind smile. To Ryan, she’s the type of person who probably dressed up as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz at least once for Halloween.
“Hi,” he responds, smiling back at her hesitantly for a minute before a little shock of dread runs through him, because he realizes that he never actually asked either one of them if it would be okay with them if he sat with them. His face flushes red. “Sorry, I just. I hope that you don’t-”
The other girl, the one with a more bottled blond shine to her hair complete with pink highlights, the one with a larger smile and a quirkier raise of an eyebrow, cuts him off. “Don’t worry about it. We want you to sit with us.” She leans forward a little on the table. “I was calling you with my eyes.” She laughs, a hint of a snort breaking through, but it doesn’t seem to bother or embarrass her. “I’m Audrey, by the way,” she tells Ryan.
“Greta,” the other girl throws in, tossing her hair back, causing the light to reflect off the soft ringlets.
It’s a lot to take in, this sudden burst of energy and people, but Ryan takes a breath and introduces himself. “I’m Ryan.”
The girl with all the pink, Audrey, grins at him something wicked. “You’re cute,” she says without preamble, apparently one to just say whatever is on her mind.
Next to her, Greta laughs. “Lock it up, Aud.”
Audrey shrugs. “He is.” She sighs and leans back once more into her chair. “So why are you here?”
Ryan furrows his brow. “Um, pottery.”
“Obviously,” Audrey says, “but is it because you actually like this or were you sent here? I know you’re not here with a friend, so which is it?”
He stares at her, stares at this girl who doesn’t seem to mind that the expression on Ryan’s face is probably something akin to bewilderment. “I was sent here,” he finally says since Audrey doesn’t seem the type to let things go. “My psychiatrist thinks it’ll be good for me.”
“Sugar, I’d be good for you,” Audrey says, laughing. She wraps a hand, bright green fingernails, around Greta’s arm. “I was dragged here by this sweet thing,” she says.
“I didn’t force you to come,” Greta interrupts.
Audrey cups Greta’s chin and turns her towards Ryan. “Could you say no to this face?” she asks. She darts forward and kisses Greta on the cheek. “She knows I won’t say no to her.”
“Oh, are you two…” Ryan doesn’t really think that it’s appropriate to ask, but then again, not much about this Audrey girl seems very appropriate.
Greta lets out a soft giggle. “No,” she says. “I’m straight, and Audrey is too fucking crazy for anyone.”
“It’s true,” Audrey bemoans. She winks at Ryan. “But don’t worry, sweetheart, we love the gays.” She turns to Greta. “Isn’t that right?”
Nodding, Greta smiles. “’Tis true, ‘tis true.”
Ryan frowns. “Why shouldn’t I worry?”
Greta raises an eyebrow, and for a second, Ryan can see why she and Audrey are friends. “Honey, you’re wearing like three scarves.” She pauses, apparently waiting for Ryan to say something, but when he doesn’t she goes on. “It’s July.”
Thankfully, it’s just then that the teacher decides to clear her throat and begin class.
Ryan doesn’t pay much attention. He doesn’t think it’ll be difficult - it’s just a mound of clay, and he listens vaguely enough to hear her say something about a vase. Easy. He remembers that from art class in middle school.
Lumps of clay are passed around, and when the teacher sets the lumpy brown material in front of Ryan, he immediately presses his hands down flat against it. The clay is cold, and gives just a little, smashes together, with the pressure of Ryan’s hands.
In the front of the class, the teacher is talking once more, going on about different techniques, talking about how everyone should start, and beside Ryan, Audrey is whispering something to Greta that has them both giggling behind hands that make a secretive screen.
Ryan lets his fingers kneed at the clay, spreading it out, making the mass into something that vaguely resembles a shitty vase. His fingers play at it, trying to make the outside smooth, and he bites his lip in concentration.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Greta says, pulling Ryan out of his self-contained world. Her voice isn’t harsh or mean, and she throws Ryan a well-meaning smile. Ryan’s pretty sure that Gerard would love her.
At the thought of Gerard, Ryan remembers the whole point of this exercise in the first place, and he forces himself to not retreat back to the haphazardly constructed vase sitting in front of him on the table.
“Just concentrating,” Ryan says.
Next to him, Audrey is working on her own vase, but Ryan doesn’t really see it from the strange structure lying in front of her. Greta’s, however, already is looking fully-formed.
“Why don’t you tell us something about yourself?” Greta suggests.
Audrey snorts. “Something you’ve never told anyone else.”
Greta swats at Audrey’s hand, the clay from Greta’s hand smearing on Audrey’s. “No one ever falls for that.”
“I don’t see why not,” Audrey responds. “It’s liberating to tell strangers your deepest darkest secrets.”
“To some,” Greta allows. She smiles fondly at Audrey. “To whack jobs like you.” To Ryan, Greta asks, “Where do you work?”
An easy question. Ryan knows easy questions, but he knows the hard ones, too. He knows more questions than he knows answers, but this one is simple. “At a music magazine.”
At his words, both girls’ eyes light up. “Bad ass,” Audrey breathes, and Greta nods in agreement. “Do you get to meet famous people?”
Ryan shrugs. “Sometimes.”
“Have you met Industry of Being?” Audrey prompts. “They’re epic, even if their name is a little pretentious.”
Greta rolls her eyes. “You’re one to talk.”
“No,” Ryan says. “I mostly handle editing, but next issue I get to handle a full interview.”
Audrey and Greta look impressed. “If you meet someone I care about, you better invite me along to this interviewing session.”
Ryan stumbles for a minute, not really sure on how to respond, but luckily Greta saves him. “You’re going to scare him off if you’re so upfront, Aud,” she warns. “I like this one. Don’t chase him away.”
The thing is, Ryan notices, it’s not that difficult talking with Audrey and Greta. And with the clay beneath his fingers, he doesn’t have to worry about how to stand, where to put his hands, or if he is using too exaggerated of hand motions. It actually surprises him at how the time passes, answering questions and talking, sharing little bits about themselves with each other, telling stories, and it’s the voice of the teacher that stops the flow of the conversation, not an awkward silence.
“That’s time,” the teacher says. “Put your pieces on the paper by the kiln. Make sure your name is on it somewhere.” She points over to the back of the classroom. “And bathrooms are marked in the hall if you want to wash your hands.”
Ryan follows the stream of people in the class and puts his decently shaped vase next to Audrey’s strange work and Greta’s pristine one. His own vase has swirling shapes carved on the sides, and he hopes that the wave effect he added to the rim turns out well.
“We’ll wait for you by the girl’s room,” Audrey says as they leave the classroom. “It’s down by the exit. Men’s room is down that hall.” She points, and then grins at Ryan, who is feeling, and probably looking, a little confused. “You’re not going to make us walk to the car by ourselves, are you?” She bats her eyes.
Ryan surprises himself by smiling and shaking his head easily. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Greta hip bumps Ryan, pushing him down the hall, and he walks towards the men’s room, following the signs.
The water is warm as it washes over his hands, and the clay doesn’t take that long to get off, but Ryan gets distracted on his way back, thinking about Audrey’s blatant in-your-face attitude and Greta’s sweet demeanor.
He makes a wrong turn, and suddenly he’s in an unfamiliar corridor, but that’s not what stops his footsteps. It’s the music.
Just audible over the low hum of the Civic Center’s air conditioning, Ryan can hear the sound of a piano. The notes are slow, haunting almost, but Ryan doesn’t have to be in the music industry to know that whoever is playing it knows what they are doing. It is beautiful.
He starts walking toward the noise, wanting to just catch a glimpse at whoever is playing it, but suddenly Audrey’s voice cuts through. “Thought we lost you, Ryan.”
Ryan turns back toward the girls, the music behind him, but that’s not really true, because it feels more like it’s surrounding him, but he turns back toward them and walks away from the noise. “Sorry,” he says.
Greta and Audrey lead Ryan through the corridors, but even when Ryan walks through the parking lot, back to his car, with Greta and Audrey chattering happily next to him, he can still hear the soft notes of the piano. They linger.
Part Two