To the Beat of My Heart

Rift

We eat fried rice to the background hum of Clay's strings. Legs crossed, guitar held lovingly to his chest, he plays some mindless tune, perhaps composing, perhaps filling the silence. Chelsea looks right at home, legs up over my lap as she digs into her fried rice, leftovers from last night, early morning sunlight revealing her spoilt smile.

"Broken in, much?" I muse, wriggling my toes in my socks, stretching them out over the coffee table. Chelsea's taking up three-quarters of the sofa. Clay, the lucky bastard has the other sofa all to himself, and he is relishing it.

"Your place is a palace," she says, twirling her fork in the carton. "Acoustics in here are insane, I can tell." She winks at Clay.

"Why do you think I chose the place?" he retorts with a click of his tongue.

"We," I correct, smirking at him before lowering my eyes back to my laptop. Every morning, I've gotta play personal assistant to the talent. Emails, social media, checking our schedule for small shows or interviews. Clay has already accepted he'd be lost without me. "It's also the ensuite and view."

"Whiskey for Fletch, a pint for me, feet in the pool and my guitar," Clay murmurs. "Bliss."

"Ansel," Chelsea suddenly announces, slapping my leg.

I wince. "What?"

"I'm here now; got nothing else going on. You boys have a bit of a dilemma on your hands and you need a good kick up the arse to actually get crap done."

"Chels, I—"

"Nuh-uh. You're not weaselling out of this. I know you. You mean well, but you spend weeks twiddling your thumbs overthinking things, feeling sorry about yourself and how everything's out of whack. We are doing this here. Now."

I shimmy and grip the edges of the laptop, suppressing the urge to swallow. Shit. Can always count on Chels to call you out. She knows me too well. Has the balls to actually say what's on her mind, damn the consequences. Or better yet, she knows she'll get consequences.

"You've tried calling him again?" she asks.

"Every couple of days. Usually once, sometimes twice, like morning and evening. Don't want, uh, don't wanna be clingy."

"Sure, spurned lover boy." She winks and slaps my leg again. Same spot, too. Ouch. "Safe to assume you've sent him paragraphs of texts and he's ghosted them all. Safety net being in Germany, as well. Not like we can pop round to his place, barge into his bedroom and pull his hand from his pants."

"Lovely image, thanks," I grimace. "He did sound pretty final," I mutter, watching Clay staring down at his familiar six strings, strings that blister and snap, and always, he can rely on their ripples and echoes, sound waves slicing through the silence. He's held on a chord, muscles tensed, knuckles white, and I can see sweat dripping down his brow. I might have been the only vocal one giving a shit about Ansel, but I don't need Clay to say it out loud. He neglected Ansel, was oblivious to his needs. He failed his mate.

"Sounds simple enough," Chelsea hums, finishing off the scraps in her fried rice. She eyes the bottom and then slams the thing down on the coffee table, whipping her head to glare at me. "He won't throw out a lifesaver, so we're gonna have to swim to him."

"Really," Clay snorts, "with the fucking metaphors."

"I'm not following," I say, glancing quickly at Clay. He's letting the darkness in. Letting past mistakes resurface.

"Honestly," Chelsea grumbles, "you two numpties do my head in." She pinches her nose and then speaks slowly like she's at her wits ends and has had enough of repeating herself. "We go to him. In Germany."