American Sweethearts

19

"Nobody said it was easy," I mumble softly. "It's such a shame for us to part."

I press my fingers against the keys, playing the chords perfectly. This is such a simple song to play, and I absolutely love it. I'm not much of a singer, but I can't help it. It's not like anyone can hear me anyway. I'm playing along to the song. It's blasting out of the speakers, drowning out the sound of my voice.

"No one ever said it would be this hard," I sing. "Oh, take me back to the start."

I play the final few chords. I barely have to focus on the notes, my hands play them automatically. As soon as the song is over, the next one starts. It's another Coldplay song, but one I don't know as well.

I dig through my stack of papers. The sheet music is in there somewhere, but I can't find it. I should probably alphabetise them. I turn around, ready to grab another box of papers, but I freeze when I see a figure standing in the doorway.

"Oh my god!" I gasp, taken by surprise.

"Turn it down, will you?" Tyler grumbles. "I'm trying to sleep."

"Yes, oh my god, I'm so sorry, I thought I was alone," I stop the music, blurring the words out.

I haven't seen Tyler all day. I assumed he wasn't home, but I guess I was wrong. Owen is at work, and Lena is out with her friends. The place was completely quiet. Maybe he just got home.

"If you're gonna play music, play something decent," he tells me. "Coldplay fucking sucks."

"You like the National but you don't like coldplay?" I frown.

"I never said I liked The National."

Oh. He's right. I just assumed he did, because it was playing in his car. But once again, I guess I'm wrong.

I gather my papers off my desk, deciding to call it a day. I expect Tyler to leave, but he doesn't. He leans against the doorframe, running a hand through his curls. For once, he doesn't smell like alcohol or smoke. Instead, he smells surprisingly clean.

In this light, I can finally make out some of his tattoos. There's a large one just above his hip. It's the head of a lion, with a skull in its mouth.

There's an axe on his left peck, and a birdcage on his right upper chest, just beneath his collarbone. There's also some text on his abdomen, but I can't make out the words.

"Are you okay?" he asks, catching me by surprise. I lift my head, analysing the serenity of his words.

"Yeah, yeah," I nod, pursing my lips. "I'm fine."

"I mean, about last night."

"What about it?"

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," I repeat.

"Sarah-,"

"What do you care?" I cut him off. I don't want to talk about this, let alone with him. He's made it perfectly clear he doesn't like me.

"Come on," he snickers. "You had a fucking panic attack."

"So? What does it matter?"

"That's a serious issue," he insists. "You can't just blow it off like that."

"I'm not."

"Then don't act like it!"

"I'm not acting like anything!"

"You sure about that? Because you walked away like it was just a ducking normal day!"

"Well it was!"