Stolen Harmony: An MM Romance, page 11
The kids nodded enthusiastically. I looked at Elias again, and this time I saw understanding in his eyes. He knew this wasn't just about entertaining children.
I started fingerpicking a simple melody, letting the muscle memory take over while I tried to find words that felt true. The song that came out wasn't polished or complicated, just honest.
“Sometimes you leave and think you're gone for good,” I sang, my voice rougher than it should have been for a kids' audience. “Sometimes you run because it's all you know how to do. But sometimes you find yourself walking down a road that leads you back to where you started, and maybe that's where you were supposed to be all along.”
The kids listened with the kind of attention adults rarely gave music, completely absorbed in the story. When I finished, they applauded with genuine enthusiasm.
“That was beautiful,” Sofia said quietly.
“Will you teach us that one?” Mark asked.
“Maybe someday,” I said, handing the guitar back to Sofia. “Keep practicing those chords first.”
The kids were gathering their things now, parents arriving to pick them up. Elias moved around the room saying goodbye to each of them, reminding them to practice, promising to see them next week. I stayed by the doorway, suddenly feeling like an intruder in this warm, easy world he'd created.
When the last kid was gone, we were alone in the multipurpose room. The silence felt loaded, expectant in a way that made my skin feel too tight.
“That was beautiful,” he said, looking at me with that same gentle expression he'd given the kids. “The song.”
And there it was again—that patient kindness that I didn't know how to handle. It made me want to say something cutting, to restore the safe distance between us.
“It wasn't much of a song. Just noise, really.”
“I don't think that's true.”
“Yeah, well, you don't know me well enough to judge.” The words came out sharper than I'd intended, but I didn't take them back.
He absorbed the hit without flinching, just nodded and started packing up his guitar. Those careful, gentle movements that I was starting to recognize as his way of giving space when I got defensive.
Which only made me more defensive.
“I should get back to my workout,” I said, backing toward the door. “Thanks for... letting me watch.”
“Rowan—“
“See you around.”
I was out the door before he could finish whatever he'd been about to say, walking fast down the hallway like I was being chased. Which maybe I was, just not by him.
Back in the gym, I threw myself into my routine with desperate focus. Chest press, shoulder flies, deadlifts that made my back scream. Physical pain I could understand, could work through. It was the other kind—the weird flutter in my chest when Elias had smiled at me, the way my pulse had jumped when he'd said my name—that I didn't know what to do with.
Because watching him with those kids had done something to me. Cracked open something I'd been trying to keep locked down since I'd walked into his living room and seen my mother's ghost in every careful gesture he made.
He wasn't just the man who'd married her. He was kind and patient and genuinely gifted, and he'd looked at me like I mattered. Not because of whose son I was, but because of the music I'd made in that moment.
And that scared the hell out of me.
I finished my sets and headed home, sweat cooling on my skin as I walked through Harbor's End's quiet streets. But I couldn't shake the image of Elias crouched next to that little girl, adjusting her fingers on the fretboard with infinite patience. Or the way he'd looked when I'd played that fragment of a song—like he'd heard something worth listening to.
I was in trouble. The kind that had nothing to do with grief or guilt or any of the things I'd come here to figure out.
I was starting to want something I had no business wanting. And I didn't have the first clue what to do about that.
Chapter 10
What We Leave Behind
Elias
Victor's house always made me feel like I was contaminating something just by breathing in it.
I sat on the edge of his pristine leather armchair, afraid to lean back, afraid to make myself comfortable in a space that was designed to intimidate rather than welcome. Every surface gleamed under the carefully positioned lighting, every book on the floor-to-ceiling shelves perfectly aligned by height and color. Even the air smelled expensive: lemon polish and leather conditioner and the particular scent of money that had been sitting still long enough to grow roots.
The coffee in my hands was perfect too, served in a china cup that probably cost more than I made in a week. But it tasted like obligation, like the bitter medicine you swallow because someone with more power than you insists it's good for you.
Victor sat across from me in his matching chair, a small, controlled smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It was the expression he'd worn since we were kids, the one that said he knew things you didn't and was deciding whether to share them or use them against you later.
“How's work been treating you?” he asked, his voice smooth as the leather beneath him.
“Fine.” I took a sip of coffee to avoid having to elaborate. “Busy.”
“That's good. That's very good. Economy being what it is, steady work is a blessing.” He crossed one leg over the other, the crease in his pants sharp enough to cut glass. “I hear that new artist you've been working with is getting some attention. Local radio, wasn't it?”
I nodded, wondering how he knew about that. Victor made it his business to know everyone's business in Harbor's End, but his interest in my clients felt different tonight. More pointed.
“That's the thing about this town,” he continued, settling back in his chair like he was preparing for a longer conversation than I'd anticipated. “News travels. Good news, bad news, all of it gets around eventually.”
The way he said it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Victor had perfected the art of making casual conversation sound like a threat, of wrapping warnings in pleasantries until you weren't sure if you were being invited to dinner or warned off someone's property.
“Speaking of news,” he said, and there it was, the real reason I was here. “I've been hearing some interesting things about development opportunities in town. Waterfront properties, specifically.”
My grip tightened on the coffee cup. “Yeah?”
“The town council's been very receptive to proposals for modernization. Bringing Harbor's End into the twenty-first century, attracting the kind of tourism revenue that could really transform this place.” His smile widened, showing teeth that were too white and too straight. “Properties with good bones but... outdated uses... those are particularly attractive to investors.”
The studio. He was talking about the studio, and we both knew it.
“That so,” I said, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
“Oh yes. Very promising. Of course, change is always challenging for people who've grown... attached to the way things were.” Victor leaned forward slightly, his pale eyes fixed on mine. “But sometimes change is necessary. Sometimes holding onto the past just keeps everyone from moving forward.”
“You're talking about my business, Victor. Not some abstract concept of progress.”
“Am I?” His eyebrows rose in mock surprise. “I was speaking generally about development opportunities. If you're feeling targeted, perhaps that says more about your situation than mine.”
I set down my coffee cup with more force than necessary, the china clicking against the saucer. “Cut the bullshit. You've been circling my property like a vulture for two years. What's changed?”
“Nothing's changed, Eli. That's exactly the problem.” His voice remained smooth, but there was steel underneath now. “The world moves forward. Harbor's End moves forward. Some people adapt, and some people...” He gestured vaguely at me. “Some people cling to things that are already dead.”
“The studio isn't dead.”
“Isn't it? When's the last time you recorded anything meaningful there? When's the last time you made music instead of just... existing in the same space where music used to happen?”
The words hit too close to home, and Victor knew it. His smile sharpened, scenting blood in the water.
“I should probably get going,” I said, standing abruptly.
“Of course.” Victor's smile didn't waver. “But before you do, I should mention that I heard some other news. More personal news.”
My stomach dropped, but I kept my expression blank. “Oh?”
“Rowan is back in town.” He made it sound casual, conversational, like he was commenting on the weather. “Interesting timing, don't you think?”
The way he said Rowan's name made my skin crawl. Like he was tasting it, rolling it around on his tongue to see how it might be used.
“Haven't seen much of him,” I said, which was technically true. The encounters we'd had were brief, charged with tension and misunderstanding, hardly enough to qualify as seeing much of anyone.
“Of course not.” Victor nodded sympathetically. “I'm sure it's complicated, given the circumstances. A young man coming back to deal with his emotions, trying to make sense of his mother's... choices.”
The pause before the word “choices” was deliberate, loaded with implication. Victor had always disapproved of my marriage, had made it clear that he thought his younger brother was wasting himself on a woman with a past and a son who might cause complications.
“People will talk,” Victor continued, his tone remaining conversational. “They always do in a town this size. Especially when there are... unusual relationships involved.”
Not a threat. Not quite a warning. Just a statement of fact.
“I'm sure they will,” I said, standing up. The coffee had left a bitter taste in my mouth that had nothing to do with the beans.
Victor stood as well, extending his hand for a shake that felt more like a business transaction than a brotherly goodbye. His grip was firm, dry, the handshake of a man who'd never done a day of manual labor in his life.
“Take care of yourself, Eli,” he said, and the use of my nickname felt like a violation. “And remember what I said about change. Sometimes it's better to embrace it before it embraces you.”
I left without another word, stepping out into air that felt twenty degrees colder than it had when I'd arrived. The wind cut through my jacket like it was made of paper, but the chill was nothing compared to the ice in my chest.
Victor's warning had been clear enough. Stay away from Rowan, or face the consequences. The studio, my livelihood, my place in this town that had been my home for forty-eight years, all of it could disappear if I didn't play by the rules that men like Victor had written.
But what Victor didn't understand was that some things were worth the risk.
The waterfront was quieter, less contaminated by progress. The tide was low, exposing the mudflats where clams buried themselves and seagulls picked through the debris left by the last storm. The air smelled like salt and seaweed and the particular funk of low tide that tourists complained about but locals had learned to love.
That's when I saw him.
Rowan sat on one of the weathered benches near the duck pond, shoulders hunched against the wind, tossing torn bits of bread toward a cluster of mallards that had congregated near the water's edge. Even from a distance, I could see the tension in his posture, the way he held himself like he was braced for a blow that might come from any direction.
A brown paper bag sat beside him on the bench, the neck of a beer bottle visible at the top. Day drinking wasn't unusual for Rowan, from what I'd observed, but something about the careful way he was rationing the bread suggested this was less about getting drunk and more about having an excuse to sit still.
He glanced up as I approached, our eyes meeting for a fraction of a second before he looked back at the ducks. No greeting, no acknowledgment beyond that brief moment of recognition. Just a subtle shift in his posture that said he was aware of my presence but wasn't going to make it easy.
I sat down on the other end of the bench without asking permission, leaving enough space between us that we weren't crowding each other but close enough that conversation was possible. The wood was cold beneath me, warped by years of weather and worn smooth by countless other people who'd come here to think or hide or feed the ducks when they didn't know what else to do with their hands.
For several minutes, we sat in silence. Rowan continued methodically tearing pieces from what looked like half a sandwich, throwing them toward the water. The ducks paddled closer, their movements creating ripples that spread across the surface of the pond in ever-widening circles.
“She used to bring me here,” Rowan said finally, his voice so quiet I almost missed it over the sound of the wind in the trees. “When I was little. Made me feed the ducks even when I didn't want to, said it was good for me to do things that didn't matter.”
I found myself holding my breath, afraid that speaking might break whatever spell had allowed him to share even that small piece of his past.
“She thought feeding them was important,” he continued, his eyes still fixed on the water. “Said it taught patience, or responsibility, or some other bullshit that was supposed to make me a better person.”
I could hear the pain underneath the cynicism, the way his voice caught slightly on the word “bullshit” like he was testing whether I'd judge him for speaking ill of the dead.
“She once laughed so hard she cried because a duck chased her halfway across the park,” I said, the memory surfacing without invitation. “She'd brought stale donuts instead of bread, and apparently they were too sweet. The duck followed her all the way to the parking lot, honking like it was personally offended.”
Rowan's head tilted slightly, and I caught the ghost of a smile threatening the corners of his mouth before he pushed it away. “She never told me that.”
“She was embarrassed. Said it wasn't dignified for a grown woman to be terrorized by waterfowl.” I found myself smiling at the memory, the first genuine smile I'd managed in days. “But she kept bringing donuts anyway. Said the ducks had opinions and she respected that.”
The silence that followed was different from the one before. Softer, maybe. Less charged with the possibility of explosion. Rowan continued feeding the ducks, but his movements had lost some of their mechanical quality, become more natural.
“I used to hate coming here,” he said, tearing another piece of bread. “Thought it was stupid, sitting by a pond full of dirty water throwing food at birds that would forget you existed the second you ran out of snacks.”
“What changed your mind?”
He was quiet for so long I thought he wasn't going to answer. Then: “Nothing changed my mind. I still think it's stupid. But sometimes stupid things are the only ones that make sense.”
I understood what he meant. There was something about the ritual of it, the simple act of feeding creatures that asked for nothing but bread and expected nothing but bread, that felt honest in a way that human relationships rarely did.
“She brought me here the day before I left for New York,” Rowan said suddenly, his voice so quiet I had to strain to hear it over the wind. “Last time we...” He stopped, shook his head. “Last real conversation we had.”
I waited, afraid that speaking might break whatever had opened up between us.
“I was being a shit about it. About leaving, about her not understanding why I had to go.” His hands stilled on the bread. “She said she was proud of me, and I told her pride wasn't going to pay my rent.”
The pain in his voice was raw, unguarded. “What did she say to that?”
“That love wasn't supposed to be practical. That the best things in life were the ones that didn't make sense on paper.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Classic her, right? Always believing in things that couldn't be measured.”
A particularly aggressive duck had claimed territory near our feet, honking warnings at any other bird that dared to come too close to the falling crumbs. Rowan watched it with something that might have been amusement.
“That one reminds me of someone,” he said, and I couldn't tell if he was talking about himself or me or someone else entirely.
“Probably me,” I said. “I've been told I'm territorial.”
“Yeah?” He glanced at me sideways. “About what?”
The question hung between us, loaded with meaning I wasn't ready to unpack. “Things that matter,” I said finally.
“What matters to you?”
It was such a simple question, but it felt like standing at the edge of a cliff. “Fewer things than I thought. More things than I expected.”
Rowan nodded like that made perfect sense. “She used to say I was afraid of wanting things. Said I'd rather pretend I didn't care than risk being disappointed.”
“Were you?”
“Probably.” He threw the last piece of bread, watching the ducks scramble for it. “Still am, I think. It's easier to be angry than sad. Anger makes you feel like you're doing something, even when you're just making everything worse.”
The honesty of it gutted me. “I know that feeling.”
“Do you?” His voice was challenging now, testing. “Because from where I'm sitting, you look like someone who's forgotten how to feel anything at all.”
The words stung because they were true. “Maybe I have.”
“That's worse,” he said quietly. “At least anger is feeling something.”
We sat there until the bread was gone and the beer bottle was empty, watching the ducks lose interest and paddle away to harass other potential food sources. The sun was starting to set, painting the water in shades of gold and orange that would have been beautiful if either of us had been in the mood to appreciate beauty.
“I keep thinking I should visit her,” Rowan said suddenly. “The grave. But I don't know what I'd say.”
