Heart Tunes

THE FIRST SONG

CHAPTER 3

SCARLETT

It’s Saturday night and I decide that instead of burying myself in paperwork, I should actually go outside for once. A shocking decision, honestly.

Most Saturdays usually involve me sitting in front of my laptop with twenty open tabs while pretending I enjoy spreadsheets and property reports. Marie says I work like a divorced father with three children and a mortgage to which I responded that she is too dramatic but unfortunately, she’s not entirely wrong. Tonight though, I make an effort. My white skirt and brown top hug my body a little too tightly but somehow feel perfect for the occasion, casual enough to blend in and nice enough that my mother would not completely lose her mind if paparazzi somehow appeared from the bushes.

Being a billionaire is kind of fun sometimes. Good food. Constant vacations. Ridiculous opportunities. An easy life. The problem is that after a while, none of those things really interest you anymore. Luxury becomes normal and when everything is accessible, nothing feels exciting which is probably why I’m currently sitting alone in a park eating ice cream while trying not to look pathetic.

I’m supposed to meet Ethan here, but he canceled thirty minutes ago claiming that he has an emergency but I suspect he just forgot. So now I’m sitting on a bench near the fountain looking like the human embodiment of rejection. Some kid even stared at me pityingly before dragging his mother away. Humiliating.

The park itself is unusually lively tonight. Warm yellow lights line the pathways while people move around lazily, enjoying the weather before summer disappears completely. A group of teenagers ride skateboards near the entrance despite the giant sign clearly telling them not to. Parents sit on benches while children run around screaming with unnecessary amounts of energy. Somewhere nearby, there is a food truck.

New York always smells strange at night. Smoke.Food. perfume. Rain on concrete. The city never really sleeps. It just slows down enough for you to notice people if you care to.

I take another spoonful of ice cream and immediately regret it because it’s freezing.My phone starts ringing and I ignore it. I love my job, I really do, but if this is another complaint from Mr. Miller about plumbing issues he caused himself, I might actually lose my mind. Last month he poured noodles into his sink and somehow blamed it one me. The phone stops ringing and I barely finish sighing in relief before it starts again. I ignore it a second time and then it rings a third time. Persistent and annoying. Probably important.

Groaning quietly, I reach into my bag and pull my phone out while mentally preparing a professional version of leave me alone. Michael’s name flashes across the screen instead.

“At least it isn’t Mr. Miller,” I mutter dryly to myself. I stare at the screen for a few seconds. Part of me wants to ignore him completely after what happened outside Neon District and another part of me knows avoiding problems has never solved anything.There is no point in running so eventually, I answer.

“Good evening,” he says, voice unusually calm.

“Hello, Michael,” I reply in my coldest tone.

Silence stretches between us for a moment. I rarely speak to him like this.

“I’m sorry about what happened the last time,” he says finally. “I was drunk and unreasonably angry.”

Unreasonably angry? That’s certainly one way to describe almost punching someone.

“It’s not an issue,” I respond calmly even though my heart has already started racing.

I hate confrontation. People always assume I enjoy it because I’m good at handling business situations, but I don’t. I just know how to hide discomfort better than most people.

“I want the manager position,” Michael says suddenly. “That’s if it’s still open.” I lean back against the bench slowly. Neon District means too much to him for him to walk away completely.

“I’ll consider it,” I say carefully. “There are already applications coming in so there’s competition but we can probably make it work.” The sigh of relief he lets out is almost immediate.

“Thank you so much”he says.

“You’re welcome" I end the call before the conversation can become awkward again. For a while, I just sit there staring at my melting ice cream. I genuinely don’t know if I’m making the right decision. Michael helped build Neon District into what it is today but he’s also the same person who nearly hit me some nights ago. Trust becomes complicated after things like that.

Around me, the park continues moving normally. Children tug their parents toward the ice cream stand. A couple sits near the fountain taking what looks like their fiftieth picture together. They’re probably in high school. Young enough to think love is simple. I watch them pose dramatically while laughing at each other and something uncomfortable twists lightly in my chest. Unfortunately, that kind of life can never really be mine, not fully. In families like mine, love is less about emotion and more about suitability.You marry people that make sense. People that protect reputation.People your parents approve of. Love itself isn’t forbidden. You just have to love correctly. I shake the thought away immediately.

Absolutely not. Not tonight.

A sudden burst of noise from the far end of the park drags me out of my thoughts. At first, I assume it’s another argument or teenagers fighting over something stupid. Curiosity gets the better of me anyway. I toss my unfinished ice cream into a nearby trash can and walk toward the noise. The closer I get, the clearer the sound becomes.

Music.

Not recorded music.

Live music.

A small crowd has gathered around somebody sitting casually on top of one of the low concrete walls near the basketball court. He’s wearing ripped black jeans and a dark hoodie with the sleeves rolled up carelessly. A guitar rests against his knee while his fingers move absentmindedly across the strings. Even from behind, I recognize him instantly.

Noah Carter.

I’d know that lazy posture anywhere. A group of high school kids crowd around him excitedly.

“Sing I Don’t Care by Justin Bieber!” one boy shouts.

“No, love songs!” a girl argues immediately.

“The Nights by Avicii!” another suggests loudly.

Noah laughs softly at the chaos. It’s great seeing him like this. So relaxed. Like he belongs naturally anywhere people are having fun.

“Those Eyes by New West,” I say before I can stop myself. The words leave my mouth too quickly. Noah raises his head immediately and looks genuinely surprised to see me standing there. For half a second, I consider pretending I wasn’t talking. Unfortunately, it’s too late for dignity. He nods once in acknowledgment.

“I can’t sing tonight,” he tells the kids, “but I’ll play the instrumentals and you guys can sing.”

The children cheer dramatically.

Two girls literally jump up and down while pulling out their phones to record him.

Noah adjusts the guitar slightly before beginning to play.

Softly.

Smoothly.

The melody drifts through the park so naturally that conversations nearby actually quiet down and embarrassingly enough, I think my chest tightens a little because he picked my song.

The kids begin singing loudly and completely off-key. At some point, I accidentally join in, only quietly but still. By the time the song ends, everyone bursts into applause. The kids slowly scatter afterward, still laughing and replaying their recordings.

Eventually, Noah is alone again. I walk toward him carefully.

“Nice performance,” I compliment.

“It is an honor to perform for you, Red,” he replies lazily, that same annoying smirk appearing.

“My name is Scarlett."

“Well, Scarlett means red,” he says confidently like he just solved a mystery. I stare at him for a second then laugh despite myself.

“You win" I say, holding my hands up in surrender.

“I always do” he replies,the cocky smile still on his face.

The arrogance in his voice should annoy me instead, it’s weirdly entertaining.

“I should get going,” I say after a moment.

“So soon?” he asks

“Yes.”

“You didn’t even finish your ice cream" he points out.

I pause immediately.

“How did you know I came here for ice cream?”

Noah looks completely unbothered.

“I watched you walk in, buy ice cream, and sit on the bench looking lonely.” My jaw drops slightly.

“For a second I thought some kid was going to come sit with you out of pity" he adds.

“It almost happened" I confess.

His eyes widen slightly before he bursts into laughter.

“You’re joking.”

“I wish" I sigh.

“That’s actually tragic" he declares sadly.

“You’re enjoying this too much.”

“A little." The signature smirk appears.

I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously.

“So you’ve just been watching me like some kind of stalker?”

“I wouldn’t say stalker,” he replies casually. “Observer sounds less illegal.”

“That is not comforting.”

He grins.

“You looked interesting" he replies.

“Eating ice cream alone?” I ask, bewildered.

“You looked like a billionaire going through an existential crisis" he comments.

I blink.

“That is oddly specific.”

“I’m very observant" he reminds me.

“That sounds fake.”

“It probably is.”

I shake my head while trying very hard not to smile. Talking to Noah feels strangely easy. Dangerously easy. Most people around me speak carefully. They measure their words. They calculate reactions. Noah just says whatever enters his head like consequences don’t exist. It should be irritating but instead it feels refreshing which is probably a problem.

“It’s getting late,” I say eventually. “I should start heading home.”

“I feel bad for you.”

I blink at him.

“Why?” I ask.

“There’s no color in your life.”

The statement catches me so off guard that I actually laugh.

“You’ve known me for less than a week”

“And yet I’m still right" he counters.

“You sound like my old therapist.” I tell him

“You sound defensive.”

“I am defensive.”

“At least you’re self-aware.”

I fold my arms across my chest.

“I’ll let you know when I need psychoanalysis, but right now I don’t.”

“Sure, Red.”

“And stop calling me that.”

“No.”

I stare at him in disbelief.

“No?”

“No.”

“That’s incredibly childish.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet you’re still standing here talking to me.”

Unfortunately, he has a point.

I hate that he has a point.

“You know,” Noah says thoughtfully, “I think this is the longest conversation you’ve had where you weren’t secretly trying to escape.”

“I’m literally trying to leave right now.”

“But you haven’t left yet.”

I open my mouth to argue.

Then close it again.

Annoying.

Completely annoying.

Noah notices my silence and smirks victoriously.

“I knew it.”

“You know nothing.”

“I know you hate being alone more than you pretend to.”

Something about the way he says it makes my chest suddenly feel heavier, like he accidentally touched something personal without realizing it and for some reason, that scares me more than it should so I do what I always do when conversations become too real. I leave.

“Goodnight, Carter.”

“Goodnight, Red.”

As I walk away from him, my chest feels heavier than it has in months.