Heart Tunes

THE DELIVERY

CHAPTER 6

NOAH

“I’m telling you for the last time, I did not order an oven" I yell frustrated. I've been trying to keep my temper in check but it's proving quite difficult. I've been couped up in my apartment for hours trying to find something, anything to get me a step closer to my new song but I've come up blank.

The delivery man stares at me like I personally ruined his entire day.

“I didn’t say you ordered it,” he replies through clenched teeth. “I said this is the address I’m supposed to deliver it to.”

We've been standing outside my apartment for almost ten minutes arguing about an oven neither of us actually wants to discuss anymore. The giant box sits awkwardly in the hallway between us like an unwanted child.

"Okay,” I say slowly, trying to remain patient. “Then who ordered it?”

The man goes quiet for a second. His eyes dart away briefly like he’s debating whether or not the information is worth sharing. Probably sensing that I won’t stop asking until he answers, he sighs heavily.

“Ms. Beaumont.”

I blink. Once.Twice.

Red bought me an oven?

For a few seconds my brain completely stops functioning.

“But why would she—”

“Dude,” the delivery man snaps suddenly, “will you just take the oven? I have other deliveries to make."

Right. Poor guy probably has bills to pay and here I am having an internal crisis in the hallway..I nod quickly and take the pen he offers me.

“Sorry,” I mutter while signing.

The man snatches the clipboard back almost aggressively before rushing toward the elevator. Honestly, I don't blame him. The second the elevator doors close, I look back at the box again.

An oven. Red bought me an actual oven.

I laugh quietly to myself in disbelief. I mentioned one time — one single time — that my oven was acting up and somehow she actually remembered. Could that be the reason she bought it? She's really intentional. Are all billionaires intentional? Definitely not. Rich people are terrifying. Normal people say things like:

“Oh no, that sucks. I could get you a repair man.” Scarlett Beamount apparently buys new industrial kitchen equipment.I stare at the oben and as expected, it is one of the besg products in the market. I leave the oven outside my apartment door for now because honestly I still haven’t fully processed it. Instead, I walk back inside. The apartment still seems strange to me sometimes. Not because it’s luxurious. It actually isn't too much. At least not in the flashy billionaire way people expect when they hear Scarlett owns the building.

The apartment is simple. Clean walls. Large windows. Dark wooden floors. Warm lighting. It feels lived in without actually being lived in. Like somebody carefully designed every room hoping people would eventually make memories there.

I understand now why Scarlett seems so emotionally attached to her properties. This place doesn’t feel like a business investment. It feels personal. I walk toward the second room in the apartment. My music room or at least that’s what I call it even though it’s technically just a spare bedroom stuffed with equipment. Microphones. Speakers. Wires everywhere. It's really messy.

My guitar is leaning carelessly against the wall. A keyboard I barely touch anymore lies carelessly on the floor. I left it there after one of my fruitless brainstorming sessions. For the past few weeks Owen has been telling me to focus, to get my head back in the game and he’s right. But the issue is, can I get my head back in the game?

Chris Owens did not take me under his wing so I could spend my time flirting with emotionally unavailable billionaires in parks or baking cookies for my neighbours. I rub a hand down my face tiredly. For someone who barely does anything I'm too tired. The truth is I haven’t been fully present lately.

Every time I try writing music lately, my mind somehow either becomes empty before drifting to my problems or Scarlett. The way she argues. The way she looks annoyed ninety percent of the time even though she actually isn't. The way she pretends not to care about things she obviously cares deeply about. It’s distracting. Very distracting.

My phone starts ringing suddenly and for one stupid second, I actually hope it’s her which is ridiculous because:

One, I don’t even have her number.

And two, she definitely doesn’t have mine.

When I check the caller ID, disappointment settles in my chest almost immediately.

Mom.

I stare at the screen contemplating for a while before answering.

“Hello, Noah,” she says immediately.

No warmth.

No softness.

No excitement after not speaking to me for almost three months. Just coldness. Typical.

“Hello, Mother,” I reply evenly. “Pleasure speaking to you again.”

“I’d disagree,” she snaps immediately. “You haven’t heard from me in months and you didn’t bother checking in.”

I almost laugh because the irony is unbelievable. She stopped taking my calls barely a month after I moved to New York. She kicked me out and refused to support her dream. I'm pretty sure she waited patiently for years to find an excuse to kick me out of her life for good and she finally found one.

Every conversation somehow became too inconvenient, too exhausting, too much but somehow I’m still the bad son. It gets tiring to point out to her that she's at fault in some situations because she would never admit it.

“You were unreachable,” I say carefully. “I tried my best.” And I did. I don't plan to argue but I need to point some things out to her.

For a long time actually. I called constantly at first, sent messages, voicemails, photos, updates about gigs. Sometimes I’d sit staring at my phone hoping she’d finally answer but she never did. I felt disappointed in myself for even hoping in the first place. She could never change.

Eventually I stopped hoping because there’s only so much rejection a person can normalize before it starts eating them alive.

“Oh,” she says quietly now. “It’s been a while and I wanted to check in on you.”

For a second, my chest softens slightly because despite everything, there’s still a part of me stupid enough to miss her. To want her approval. To hope maybe today will be different. Maybe she'll have a little extra love to offer to me.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say quietly. “I’m okay. How have you been?”

“I’m fine. Work is stressful but I can manage. I've been seeing your videos all over the internet” she says and I can't stop myself from smiling.

"Do you like it?" I ask eagerly and seconds later I'm ashamed of the eagerness in my voice.

"You know I don’t understand music but i think the beats are okay" she says and I can almost see her shrug. At least she didn't outrightly call my work terrible.

I'd lpve to talk more but I’m in a bit of a tight situation. I need some money.”

And there it is. I close my eyes briefly. Of course she's in a tight situation. I should’ve seen it coming immediately. My mother is many things but subtle has never been one of them. Still, disappointment settles heavily in my chest anyway and not because I expected better but because some part of me always hopes for better anyway.

And honestly? That’s probably my biggest weakness. I stare blankly at the wall while memories rise unwillingly to the surface.

I was thirteen the first time I realized my mother hated me sometimes. Not fully. Not always but enough.

I remember coming home from school and finding her sitting on the floor crying so hard she could barely breathe. I panicked immediately. I wanted my sweet mother who also had cakes ready when I came home from school and not this one. I rushed toward her and wrapped my arms around her because that’s what children do when they see their parents hurting. Right? She turned toward me slowly, eyes red, face wet with tears. And then she said:

“It’s your fault he left me.”

I remember freezing completely. Some things stay with you. This experience did. I don't think I can ever forget the disdain in her eyes. Then she looked at me with so much anger it physically hurt to see.

“You shouldn’t have been here,” she whispered. “I could’ve killed you when I had the chance.”

Even now, twelve years later, I still remember exactly how my chest felt hearing those words. Like suddenly I was taking up too much space in the world. She screamed at me to go upstairs afterward and I did.

I remember lying in bed crying quietly because I genuinely thought my mother didn’t love me anymore. Maybe that was the day things changed permanently between us or maybe they were already changing long before then. Sometimes I still miss the version of her that existed before all of this. The woman who baked cupcakes for random occasions. The woman who used to tell me stories during power outages until I fell asleep. The woman who talked about my father like he was some kind of hero. That version of my mother disappeared years ago and somehow I’m still searching for her.

“I’ll send you some money,” I say finally because arguing is exhausting and I'm already too stressed.

“Thank you,” she replies immediately.

The softness disappears from her voice instantly now that she has what she wants. A second later, the line goes dead. No goodbye. No I love you. Nothing. Classic Mom. Fortunately for me, I didn't expect it. I lower the phone slowly and stare at it for a moment then toss it onto the couch. The apartment suddenly feels too quiet.

I grab my guitar afterward and try practicing or at least pretend to. My fingers move automatically across the strings but my head isn’t fully there.

Nothing sounds right.

Nothing feels right.

After barely twenty minutes, frustration wins. I set the guitar down roughly and grab my car keys instead.

I need air.Or noise. Or maybe a distraction. Anything really. Maybe I could go for a drive or a walk. I pick up my keys and lock the apartment behind me and head toward the elevator.

Halfway there, my phone starts ringing. I pause immediately. Probably my mother calling back to tell me the amount she needs. Already irritated, I shove my hand into my pocket and pull my phone out but there's nothing. No incoming call. The music continues softly through the hallway instead.

Smooth instrumental music. I frown slightly. That’s definitely coming from the elevatorcause it isn’t from my phone. Then suddenly, a memory hits me.

“I barely use the elevator but I’ll consider it.”

I stop walking.

Oh my God.

Red actually went through with the elevator music. I stare at the elevator doors in disbelief while the realization slowly settles in. She thought I was serious or maybe she just decided to entertain the joke anyway. First she got me an oven and next she installed elevator music? Either option somehow makes me smile. I step into the elevator slowly while the music continues playing overhead and embarrassingly enough butterflies immediately settle in my stomach which is ridiculous.

Absolutely ridiculous.

Because Scarlett Beamount buying me an oven and changing elevator music should not affect me this much but somehow it does.

And standing there listening to soft piano music in an apartment elevator, I realize something dangerous. I’m starting to look forward to seeing her again.