Touching Melody

28

Maddie

Return to Sender





And I run. And run. And run.

But I don’t end up at the library. My heart leads my feet to the Fine Arts building. The place I go to exercise my religion. The place where I’m happiest.

I edge down the steps and enter the long hallway. Immediately I’m more relaxed, more me. Our piano room, Kyle’s and mine, is at the end, and I make my way toward it. But someone’s already there. Playing. It’s a song that breaks my heart. It’s melodious, chorded. I peer in and see Kyle. Tears on his cheeks. And I wonder what he’s thinking. Why is he hurting? Are his tears for his father? I want to go in and console him, but I’m afraid.

Of rejection. Of his answers.

What if it is about his father? I can’t be a comforter for the loss of that man. I’m glad he’s dead. I only wish it was me who took his life. At such a violet thought, I shudder. I wonder why my aunt and uncle never told me. I wonder when it happened, how it happened.

Kyle seems to sense my presence and looks my direction. He sees me and quickly stops, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. I’m torn. My heart telling me one thing: go in, talk to him, and my mind: his father is bad, therefore he is bad.

Kyle makes up my mind for me. Pulls open the door.

“Hey, Freckles. What are you doing here?” His features are tight, his voice not unfriendly, but not welcoming either.

I tuck the bag of letters behind my back. “Just wanted to get in some practice. I’ll find another room.” I need to apologize. Tell him I’m sorry for passing out, but I don’t know where to begin. If it was the other way around, and he fell asleep on me, I’d be upset. So I step back, trying to escape.

He reaches out, grabs my arm. “What are you hiding?”

I tighten my grasp on the bag full of letters. I can’t let him see them. “Nothing. It’s private.”

“Come on. Show me,” he says reaching around, grabbing for the bag.

My heart is raging like a river. I don’t know what I’m more afraid of. Him seeing the letters, or him taking them away.

He. Can’t. Have. Them. Taking them would be like stealing years of my life. That’s how it feels. I won’t let him.

“Let go, Kyle. It’s none of your business.” I twist, trying to get out of his grasp, but his hands tighten.

He gives me a strange look. One that makes me curious about whether he knows. I shove my fist into his chest. “No, Kyle. Leave me alone.”

He reaches around and rips the bag. Letters spill to the floor. His words to me in a scattered pile at our feet. My heart is among those letters, as is my pride.

He bends to pick up the envelopes. Flips one over. He realizes what they are instantly. Tension rolls off him. His shoulders tense under his shirt. I think about running away, hiding the embarrassment flaming my cheeks. But I hold my ground. I want those letters. It means everything to me to read his words.

When he stands, his expression is one of surprise.

“I’m sorry, Kyle. I-I found them, and wanted to read what you had to say. I wanted to know you, know what you wrote me.”

He crumples the envelopes into a fist. Pain travels over his features. “Then why didn’t you read them when I wrote them? Why send them back?”

“I didn’t know. I-I never knew.” Tears sting my lashes, but I force them away.

He kicks the bag. “So you go through my things? You steal them?” He’s shouting. Shaking his head in disbelief. “Have you read any of them?”

My first thought is to lie, but he’ll know the truth soon enough. So I nod. “Yes, I’ve read two.”

He grinds his teeth, his jaws hardening into a line.

A girl with frizzy red hair, a flower dress, and cowboy boots comes out of a practice room. She’s holding her clarinet. “Can you two keep it down? Some of us are trying to practice."

“Yeah, sorry.” I bend down and start stacking the letters.

“You aren’t the person I knew. I don’t know what I was thinking, getting involved. You’ve changed. You’re different.” As he’s talking, he’s pulling the letters I’m stacking from my hands and placing them closer to him.

My hands start to shake. He thinks I’m different, that I’ve changed. Well no f*cking duh. I wonder how much he would’ve remained the same if he’d seen what I saw—bodies on the floor, lying in their own blood. Asleep forever.

I rip the letter I’m holding in half. Throw it at him. The pieces smack him in the face, and he flinches. He stands, and I stand too. Shove him in the chest. He falls against the door to the piano room. I stand on my tiptoes, get up in his face.

“You think I’ve changed? Well, yeah. I have. And you want to know why?”

His lips are pressed together in a tight line. He’s staring at me, searching my face for what, I’m not sure. Finally, he nods.

And I’m going to tell him. The truth. “It’s because I came home late on the night my parents died. I saw two men leave my house by the back door. One was holding a gun. He was talking to another guy. When they left I went into the house, and saw my parents dead.”

I’m so angry I’m seeing red. It’s dripping into my eyes, blinding me. All I see is blood. Lots and lots of blood. Endless blood. And it’s his father’s fault.

And I’m so furious I’m beating him with my fists, pushing him against the door. All I want is to hurt him the way I’ve been hurting. “You want to know who the guy with the gun was? The person who stole my family right out from under me?”

“Maddie,” I hear him whisper, but it doesn’t register.

“It. Was. Your. Father!” I’m shouting now. In a voice I don’t recognize. I think it’s the sound of anguish. “He killed my parents. Destroyed everything that meant anything.” I heave a deep breath. Lower my voice. “So, yeah. I’ve changed.”

I realize my hands are in fists in his shirt. I quickly release them, and turn to walk away.

The letters fall. I hear them. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk-thunk. Thunk. As they hit the floor.

Kyle pulls me against him, hugging me so tight I can barely breathe. “I’m sorry, Maddie.”

I can’t take his kindness. I can’t deal with him being nice to me. He’s evil, just like his father. I push against him, the need to get away the most powerful thing on Earth. But he won’t let me go.

“Maddie, don’t. Stay. Talk to me.” He spins me around and I see his face. The deep pain etched in his features. He leans down. I know he’s going to kiss me, and I let him.

A surge of intense desire rushes into my lower belly. I wrap my hands around his neck, pressing him to me like he’s my air. He lifts me into his arms and I circle his hips with my legs. My hands move to his glorious hair, his hands cup my butt, roam under my shirt.

I need this, the feeling. His touch burns away all of my grief. My body hums with need, pushing away the pain. His lips on mine, his hands on my body, every inch of me pressed against him; it’s better than playing the piano, stronger than the forgetful pain of a tattoo or the numbing warmth of alcohol. It’s all consuming, all encompassing.

“Kyle.” I breathe out and he breathes in, like we are one. The perfect melody.

The girl in the cowboy boots, the one holding the clarinet, says, “Intense much? Damn.”

I don’t look at her. Neither does Kyle.

Kyle pushes open the practice room door. Closes it behind us. He sets me down, but keeps my hand in his. His eyes say everything. The way he’s feeling. My hands on him, my lips on his, they push away his pain as well. That he’s hurting, that he in some way understands what I’m feeling, increases my craving for him.

“I need you,” I say, and his lips crash into mine. His tongue explores my mouth, and I meet him all the way. No holding back. No nervousness. Only heat.

He releases me to pull my shirt off. Once it’s over my head, he looks at it. “Same one you wore yesterday?”

“Yeah,” I say breathlessly, too thrilled by what’s happening to be ashamed. I tug off his gray shirt. It musses his hair, and I run my fingers through it. He kisses me lightly on the mouth and skims his hands down my body, to my jeans. I feel him tug, but I grab his hands.

I know what he wants, and I want it too. But not here. Not now. Though my body wants to punch me in the face, I can’t have sex with him. I can’t. His eyes search mine, questioning.

“I’m not… Can we just make out again?” I look down, embarrassed.

“Freckles, I would love to make out with you. In fact I think you and I should make out every day for the rest of our lives.” He smiles and kisses my cheek. “I’m sorry.” He bends over and picks up my shirt, helps me put it back on. “You’re just so damn hot.” He caresses my cheek with the palm of his hand, and I lean into him. “Most girls—” He shakes his head. “No, more like every girl I’ve kissed before seemed to want to keep going.” He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. “I’m really sorry.”

I take his face in my hands and lean up to kiss his mouth. “Thank you,” I say, trying not to focus on his comment about every girl he’s been with. I worry I won’t be enough. But he did ask me to make out with him every day. “Every day, huh?” I ask, brushing his bottom lip with my thumb.

He growls and lifts me into his arms. “Damn right. Starting now.”

We kiss until we’re breathless. My tongue explores every part of his mouth. My hands explore every part of his body. I feel like I know him by heart, that I could pick him out of a dark, crowded room.

“Can I play you a song?” he asks after a while.

“Yes,” I respond, giddy.

I follow him over to a piano bench. He sits. Adjusts it. I’m leaning against the edge of the piano.

“Don’t laugh. It’s a work in progress.”

I balk. “I’ll do my best,” I say, and wink.

He bursts out laughing. “Man, I-I like hanging out with you.” His words fall flat, and I wonder what he actually meant to say.

My heart beats rapidly. “I like hanging out with you, too.”

He smiles and closes his eyes. He plays a D and an E with his right hand. Then his left hand comes in. I close my eyes, and listen. It’s a haunting, beautiful melody, and I’m quickly lost in it.

My heart melts when he starts to sing.



Love is like a warrior.

Builds and protects those who let it in.

Like a raging breeze, it rages and tightens.

Ferocious to the end.



When love and death combine.

It’s a desperate battle.

Because sometimes when you win, you lose.

And sometimes when you lose, you win.



Death is a part of life.

It steals, a creeping dream.

Rips at the hearts of those left behind.

A slithering snake, a striking fiend.



When love and death combine.

It’s a desperate battle.

Because sometimes when you win, you lose.

And sometimes when you lose, you win.



He stops, and I realize I’m breathing heavily.

“It’s not finished.”

I open my eyes. “It’s beautiful.” I swallow. “You’re amazing.”

“So are you,” he replies, pulling me onto the bench with him, kissing me softly. “Thanks,” he whispers.

“For what?” I smile into his lips.

“Letting me be myself.”

I search his face, and realize he was worried I wouldn’t like it. He was embarrassed. I touch his face. “Always.”

He stands suddenly. “I’m famished. You really know how to wear a guy out.”

I laugh and pull open the door. The letters are still scattered on the floor, and my heart lurches in my throat.

Will he regret kissing me after my thievery? I realize I hope he doesn’t regret it, because it was wonderful. He’s wonderful.

I get on my knees and begin picking them up. Kyle is beside me.

“I’m sorry I took them. I know I shouldn’t have. It’s just when I saw they were from you… I wanted to know. You. Read the words you wrote to me.” It’s the only way I know how to explain. Like the way a body thirsts for water, my heart craves his words.

He puts a hand over mine. “I get it. You can have them. When I found out you were here, I hoped I’d get an opportunity to give them to you. I just hadn’t found a way to do it yet. You saved me the trouble.” There’s a light smile on his face. His eyes tell me he wants to say more. I wonder if he’s thinking about my allegations. About his dad.

I’m not sure how to bring that up, and I don’t have to.

“I didn’t know about my dad.” He shakes his head. “I’m—I can’t believe—”

“Don’t, Kyle.” I lean away. A noise gurgles from the back of my throat. This is a touchy subject. Because I know what I saw. Without a doubt. I glance at his face, see the blatant pain. And more. He wants to keep his father’s name clean. Stuart called Kyle’s father a dirty cop. I sense those words hurt Kyle deeply. And I’ve added to it by saying his father killed my parents. But I can’t deny what I saw.

Kyle nods, grinds his teeth, tenses his jaw. The letters are all in a pile and he picks them up, places them in my arms. “We still need to practice later. See you around five?”

My mouth opens like that of a gasping fish. I watch him walk away and think about shouting at him to stop. I wish I could say something, anything to make him stay. Go back to kissing. Having him sing to me. But I can’t find the words.

“Don’t leave,” I finally eke out, but it’s too late. He’s already gone.