Melody of Us

  @2017 A.L. Wood (Andrea Wood)

  Published in 2017. All rights reserved. This book is copyright. Apart from the fair purpose of the study, research, or review as permitted by the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced without written permission.

  Melody of Us is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to the actual, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental, and not intended by the author.

  This book is licensed for your purposeful enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return it and buy your copy.

  Cover Designed by Cassy Roop of Pink Ink Designs

  Editing by Emma Mack of Ultra Editing Co

  Melody of Us

  By A.L. Wood

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  More From A.L. Wood

  About the Author

  For my husband, who helped write our melody.

  January 30th 2017

  Age: Twenty-Five

  Lyrik

  The cold winter chill slammed into my body, all the way into my bones. The frigid month of January was here, I don’t know why I still even lived in New York. I could’ve left, had the chance to a few times, but I couldn’t leave behind the memories.

  Not yet.

  But maybe I can after today, after yesterday. Hell, after this week.

  Seeing him again was enough to send me running for the West Coast. Maybe he wouldn’t find me there to remind me of everything we had. Everything we once were.

  I pick the letter up from the floor at my feet before slamming my front door shut. It was him. I knew it was, it was pointless to look outside to begin with. He moves fast, wouldn’t want to be caught.

  The smooth envelope is white in my shaking hands. He must’ve ran out to the store soon after our argument. Well, my argument since all he did was stand there with his mouth agape trying to piece together the words I was saying.

  I know that he’s the one who slid it under my door. It’s his handwriting, I can tell by the large slash crossing the T. His penmanship hasn’t changed since he rediscovered his writing style when we were in high school.

  He used to stop in all the time to see me. Our friendship was tattered and worn, but it was all we had. Romanticism had long drifted away, we knew, well not we, because I still loved the hell out of him. But I’m pretty sure that he knew we wouldn’t ever be the same. So, we tugged at the strings of our friendship, holding on as tightly as possible, until we couldn’t any longer. Neither one of us willing to let go.

  Until that night.

  Then he disappeared, and I was left on my own to deal with it all. I worked gruesome hours, on my feet and still barely made ends meet. But I did it because I had to, like always, except I had someone else depending on me this time.

  He was gone.

  My best friend since I was five.

  I didn’t bother informing him that I needed him.

  But we needed him.

  I’ve run the scenario of reaching out to him in my head, over and over again.

  Would it have changed things? I don’t know.

  But, the past is in the past and that’s where it should stay.

  Where he should stay.

  Placing him in that box that I put him in, was the right thing to do at the time.

  Why now?

  The one and only question disrupting my thoughts. Why now does he want to come around? Why now is he writing me letters?

  We’re nothing.

  All we’ve ever been was friends, best friends at one point. I had hoped for more, needed more from him.

  God, did I ever want more. At one point in my life, my heart was solely set on him. On him being my one. Happiness was always around, because he was always there.

  He was my happiness.

  When he went on to chase his dreams, I was left in the shadows to pick up the broken pieces of me that he left behind.

  I collected those broken shards one by one over the years, and put myself back together. Just when I thought I was whole, he’d come storming back into my life, only to wreck it all over again.

  What would you have done?

  I’ve played this game enough times to know how this situation will pan out.

  He’ll beg for my forgiveness, hence the letter in my hand, he’ll promise that he won’t shut me out of his life like that again— yet he’ll do all of those things at the same time.

  I’m tired of being alone.

  Exhausted with his leaving every damn time.

  I deserve more than his absence, friend or lover, I am worth more than silence.

  I should give him some of his own medicine.

  I should rip this letter into shreds like he’s done to my soul time and time again.

  I turn the letter over in my hand, of course that’s how he’d address the crisp envelope, Just read it, even when he’s not here he’s still trying to take the decision from my hands.

  It would serve him right if I did tear it apart. But then, how would I know what it says?

  Walking briskly to my kitchen, I hold my hands over the garbage can with his letter.

  I don’t want to make a mess.

  Preparing to rip it in half, then in fourths and so on, I pause.

  What if I need to read what he’s written?

  This could be the closure that I’ve needed for so long.

  I need him to say his final goodbyes, need him to stop barging back into my life interrupting every wall I’ve tried to build to protect myself from him.

  Twenty-three years ago, he came barging into my life, he already knew who he was, full of spunk and he was troublesome. At five, I understood that. I should’ve walked away then.

  I remember meeting him for the first time like it was yesterday.

  Maybe you can help me if I tell you the story of Anson Blake and me. I’ll tell you how we met, how we crashed and burned and everything in the middle. It’ll be like you were looking over us. Then you can decide, would you read his letter too?

  Is he worth hearing out or should I just let go and move on?

  Anson

  I briskly walk away after sliding the letter under her door. She’ll get it, thankfully her car is in the driveway so I know she’ll see it. Hopefully before night is here.

  She has to read my letter.

  I hope she reads it. I owe her this.

  For years, we’ve gone back and forth with our friendship, never really setting boundaries. At one time, I was sure I loved her, but not positive that she felt the same way that I did.

  So, I left.

  I ran after my dream, always believing that she’d be there waiting for me.

  Maybe.

  Or maybe she’d find the love of her life, who wasn’t me, and she’d be happily married and finally out from her parent’s thumbs.

  Instead every time I came home to visit she was single and working hard. She had her own small house that she rented and a decent looking car. She was doing okay, I thought.

  Until today. Until she confess
ed her secret.

  A secret that broke my heart and made me fall in love with her all over again.

  We’ve spent our entire lives loving each other, in one way or another.

  Except this time, I need her to love me back. I’ll wait for her forever, to love me.

  I need to fix her. I need to fix what I broke.

  She has to read my letter.

  I know that I’ve fucked up, time and time again.

  Maybe I don’t deserve this second chance, but I want one.

  I need it, I need her.

  Maybe if I told you our story, you’d see that she has to read it too.

  June 1st 1997

  Age: Five

  Lyrik

  “This is our new house?” I ask my mom.

  Brown paint that had seen better years, long ago, covered the entire house. I bet it was once a dark elegant brown, before someone left the home to rot.

  Why would someone do that? Just up and leave their home, not caring what happened to it?

  I didn’t want to move here, I begged my parents not to move here.

  “This is it, Lyk. You’ll be happy here, you’ll see.”

  No, I won’t.

  I liked living near my Grandma, she loved me a lot, and now she’s gone. She left us, and won’t ever come back. Mom and Dad said we had to move to a new town, in a new state.

  We had to, ‘Start over’.

  I’m not sure what we had to start over exactly, it didn’t sound like fun.

  Dad pulled into the driveway, the concrete was cracked and worn, I could see pot holes littered about. It could fit two cars, maybe. The yard was overgrown, wild in nature.

  Where was I going to play?

  Mom opened my door, I got out of the car and looked around.

  It seemed that the entirety of the yard was on this side of the house, next door to the home I wished we were moving in to. Next door sat an old house, like ours, this one was beautiful though. It was taken care of, bright green blue grass covered the front lawn, and wooden chairs sat on a large wrap around porch.

  I wanted to live there.

  I look back to my new home, peeling paint, no porch, the grass basically weeds and I wonder how two different homes could be side-by-side.

  “Why don’t you take this inside for me, Lyk, we need your help if we’re going to sleep inside tonight.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  June 4th 1997

  We’ve lived here for three days and I hate it. I don’t want to live in the stinky old house anymore. My parents don’t care that I don’t like it. My room smells like what Mommy calls mildew, she says that the carpet must’ve gotten wet and now mold is growing on it. I don’t know what mildew or mold is, but they smell, really, really bad.

  Mom says that I’m getting new carpet today, it shouldn’t smell so bad then.

  I hope.

  The only nice thing about my new bedroom is that I have a big window. The roof sits just below it, flatly, so if I wanted, I could sit outside on it by myself. So, then I wouldn’t have to smell the mold.

  Mom and Dad warned me not to open the window though, but I will anyway, I’ll be safe.

  It takes a little strength, but I manage to tug the window open a little, across the way I can see the window from the nice house. It’s aligned with mine, and there’s a boy standing in the window looking at me.

  Maybe he’s my age.

  Maybe we can be friends.

  “Hi!” I yell.

  His eyebrows rise up, all the way to his hair.

  “Go away!” He yells back at me.

  Well, that’s not nice.

  “My name is Lyrik. Do you want to be my new friend? What’s your name?” I ramble out in excitement.

  “I’m not telling you. Go away!”

  Maybe he isn’t my age.

  Maybe he doesn’t want friends.

  I shut my window.

  Mom takes me with her to pick out my new carpet, she didn’t give me a lot of choices. I wanted bright pink, she said no. I ended up choosing a dark blue color, it was the only one that wasn’t ugly.

  When we get home, she asks me to check the mailbox.

  I like checking the mail. I hope that when I’m older, I get a lot of mail and everyone writes me letters, like my Grandma.

  Mom doesn’t know it, but I always look to see who is mailing her and Dad things. I try to guess what’s in each envelope. Sometimes people like Chase and Citi send them stuff, I’ve never met those people, but they seem like good friends, because they write Mom and Dad a letter every month.

  I want Chase or Citi to write me a letter, it never happens though.

  I pull the mail out of the old rusty black box, then begin reading through the mail. Wondering who sent letters today.

  Oh, my God!

  Someone wrote me a letter!

  In messy handwriting is my name on a small envelope.

  Mom always said that I could open mail the day it came addressed to me, and today is that day!

  I drop the other envelopes on the cement, excited to open my letter.

  I rip the envelope to shreds, pulling out a small piece of paper with the same messy handwriting.

  Lyrik,

  I want you to move. I don’t know why you’re my neighbor but I don’t want you to be. Your hair is brown and brown is not pretty. Please leave.

  Anson Blake

  Who is Anson Blake and why is he so mean? Is he the boy in the window? Such a mean, mean boy. He will never have friends with an attitude like that.

  Anson

  Dear Anson Blake,

  Brown is very pretty you’re just mean. I’m not moving, my parents said we can’t. And what kind of name is Anson Blake anyway?

  Lyrik Everly

  Brown is not pretty, take her house for instance, it’s an eyesore as my parents say. It’s old and ugly and falling apart. No one wants to live there, if they move in, it’s because they had to. Because they’re poor. Dad says that means that they don’t have any money and never will.

  We have money though, and because of that I cannot ever be friends with Lyrik, the weird girl next door.

  Not that I would want to be friends with someone who lives in a dirty house anyway.

  I don’t have to be her friend just because she’s my neighbor, I lived here first.

  All my life, actually.

  My parents practically own this street, so by relation I basically own this street too.

  I write her a letter back because she needs to understand that we are not, nor will we ever be friends.

  Lyrik Everly,

  Anson Blake is an awesome name, yours is not. Just because you’re my neighbor doesn’t mean I’m going to be your friend.

  Not your friend,

  Anson Blake

  I put my letter in her mailbox, then hide behind the big tree in her front yard. I don’t have to wait long before she’s strolling out her front door whistling while walking to the box. She tears my letter open and reads it. She looks like she might cry, and that’s okay, maybe now she’ll get it. That we can’t be friends.

  She lives in the worst house in town, and I live in the best. Us being friends isn’t meant to be. I don’t want to hurt her feelings so bad that she cries but she needs to understand this.

  Lyrik wipes her eyes quickly. All remnants of tears are washed away.

  Grim determination replaces the hurt look on her face.

  She runs back inside only to come back out with a new letter and she puts it in my mailbox.

  The big shiny black box that the likes of her should never touch. She runs back into her house laughing. What did she write?

  I open her letter.

  Dear Anson Blake,

  I don’t want you to be my friend anyway.

  Lyrik Everly

  Good.

  Great.

  Finally, she gets it.

  This is what I wanted.

  Mom and Dad would never allow us to be friends.

 
She’s below us.

  Her family is below us.

  I write her a final letter, we’ll never speak after this.

  Lyrik,

  Fine.

  Anson Blake

  Lyrik

  He’s so mean.

  I hate him.

  We will never be friends. He will never have any friends.

  I saw him standing outside my tree. He thinks he was hiding from me, he wanted to see me hurt because of his meanness.

  It worked, for a minute. I don’t understand why anyone wouldn’t want to be friends with me. I’m nice and thoughtful and if he just gave me the chance I would’ve been the bestest friend he’s ever had.

  Instead he said that my hair is ugly and that he wasn’t my friend.

  Brown is pretty, isn’t it?

  Mommy says it is.

  But she’s my mom.

  She has to say those things.

  Maybe brown is ugly.

  Like this house.

  Like my hair.

  Like my eyes.

  Anson Blake will regret not being my friend.

  I could’ve been his best friend.

  June 8th 1997

  Anson,

  We could’ve been best friends, but now I don’t even want to know you. You’re mean and mean boys can’t ever be my friend. Someday I’ll find my best friend and you’ll be mad.

  Lyrik Everly

  Lyrik,

  Okay. I won’t be mad. Find your friend, but it’s not me.

  Anson Blake

  September 7th 2000

  Age: Eight

  Anson

  I really, really hate her.

  Lyrik

  I really, really hate him.

  September 8th 2000

  Anson

  She’s so mean. I never wanted to be her friend, but she wouldn’t leave me alone. Since the day she moved in, she’s been a leech. Always asking what I’m doing, where I’m going and throwing things at my window.

  She throws her toys at my window as she sits on her rooftop. I hate that our rooms are directly across from one another. I hate that she writes me letters and leaves them everywhere, like a scavenger hunt except there is no prize and I’m not looking for them. If anything, I try to avoid the letters, but when I clearly find one I can’t just leave it there, because she’s always watching me. She’ll know that I found it and ignored her letter and then she’ll be hurt and maybe cry.