Crescendo In Blue

Chapter 1

ALICE

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The rain fell in a slow, mocking drizzle, soaking through the thin fabric of my black dress. Tiffany’s arm looped through mine felt like the only anchor to reality. The cemetery stretched before us, a sea of umbrellas and murmured condolences. I’d never understood why funerals were so obsessed with *black*. Jonah would’ve demanded neon caskets and a kazoo procession. But here we were, playing our parts in a script he’d have torn to shreds.

The program trembled in my hands as rain blurred the ink.

*Jonah Michael Carter

1992 - 2023

Beloved Friend • Devoted Fiancé*

Tiffany’s quiet sobs beside me were the only real sound in the cemetery. Her sunglasses hid the damage—swollen lids, broken capillaries from three days of crying—but I knew. I’d held her hair back while she vomited grief into my toilet. The faint vibration of my phone alerts me of a text.

**Mark:How long does this morbid parade last? My meeting with the investors got moved up.

I silenced my phone without replying. Across the grave, a woman in a tailored black sheath dabbed her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief. *C.Goode* Goode? My stomach twisted. I hadn't heard that name in a decade. He couldn't —

Mark’s texts buzzed again, relentless. **Mark:** *If you’re late to the venue tour, I’m rescheduling. Permanently.* I crushed my phone against my thigh. He’d proposed in a boardroom, for Christ’s sake. No knee, no candles—just a contract disguised as a ring. *“It’s practical,”* he’d said. Practical. Like love was a spreadsheet.

The priest adjusted his mic. *"We’ll now hear from Jonah’s lifelong friend, Jeremy Goode."*

My program slipped to the mud.

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**JEREMY**

I’d written this speech twelve times.

*Too formal. Too raw. It's too much like you’re guilty of something.*

Claire’s critique looped in my head as I approached the podium. She hadn’t objected to me speaking—just insisted I mention our *"charitable foundation’s work with addiction recovery"* to offset the *"optics"*.

Claire had curated my life like one of her gallery exhibits—sterile, symmetrical, *sellable*. She’d buried the demo tapes, redesigned my studio into a home gym, and scrubbed Alice’s name from every lyric sheet. *“You’re a brand now,”* she’d said, her French manicure tapping the divorce papers. *“Brands don’t have ex-girlfriends.”*

The crowd blurred. I focused on the back of Tiffany’s head, her braid coming undone in the rain.

*"Jonah gave me my first black eye,"* I began. *"Seventh grade. He thought I’d stolen his Walkman. Turns out it was in his gym bag the whole time."*

Scattered laughter.

My gaze snagged on a familiar ripple of auburn hair near the front. Alice.

*Fuck.*

She was thinner now, her sharp collarbones visible above a black dress. No trace of the girl who’d once duct-taped Jonah to a locker for stealing her lunch money.

She hadn’t noticed me yet—too busy glaring at her hand, which i noticed now had a shiny huge diamond on it while Tiffany said something quietly to her.

Claire’s perfume—something expensive and soulless—clung to my jacket. She’d picked it out, of course. Just like she’d picked our china pattern, our charity galas, our *lifestyle*. Ten years ago, Alice’s hands had smelled like lemon soda and Sharpies. Ten years ago, I’d known what happiness sounded like.

Claire cleared her throat from the front row. Right. The foundation talking points.

*"Jonah’s struggle with addiction..."* The lie tasted like gasoline.

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### **ALICE**

His voice had deepened.

That was my first stupid thought as Jeremy Goode spoke about *"demons"* and *"second chances"*. Since when did he sound like a f*****g TED Talk?

Tiffany elbowed me. *"You didn’t tell me he’d be here."*

*"I didn’t know."* The program had listed *"J. Goode"*—how was I supposed to—

A phone vibrated. Not mine.

The blonde woman—C.Goode—checked her screen with a sigh. Her left hand flashed a wedding band. He was married..

The diamond on my finger felt like a brand. Mark had slid it on during dinner at a sushi place he’d chosen, talking over the chef’s specials about prenups and portfolio dividends. I’d said yes because my mother’s hospital bills were due because my car had been repo’d, because Tiffany had just gotten Jonah’s overdose call. *Yes* was easy. *Yes* was survival.*

Then the opening chords of *our* song—the one we’d written together—spilled from the speakers. A stripped-down, haunting cover.

My knees buckled.

Tiffany’s hand locked around my elbow, her nails biting through the silk of my sleeve. “Breathe,” she muttered, voice low and frayed. “Or I’ll tell everyone you’re pregnant with Jonah’s ghost baby.”*

*A shocked laugh escaped me, sharp as a gunshot. Heads turned.

The melody clawed at old scars. I could still smell the damp basement where we’d written it—mildew, sweat, and the vanilla candle Tiffany had stolen from the mall. Jeremy’s hands on the piano, mine on the lyric sheet, Jonah drumming rhythms on an overturned bucket. Now Jonah was in a box, Jeremy was a stranger in a tailored suit, and I was just a girl clinging to a lie in a black dress two sizes too big.

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### **JEREMY**

The label’s lawyers had advised against playing it. *“That track’s been out of print for years,”* they’d said. *“The publishing rights are—”*

Fuck the rights.

As the first verse played, I let myself look up—

And there she was.

Alice Michaels—i didnt care that she was engaged now, for all i know she couldve kept her last name—perched on the edge of a folding chair, her knee bouncing like it used to during exams. Her dress was black, her lips red, her engagement ring a grotesque sparkle in the gloom.

Claire materialized at my side, her smile a warning. “Darling, *People* wants a quote.” She pressed her phone to my chest. “Make it poetic. Make it *profitable*

Our eyes locked.

Ten years. A thousand regrets.

The song crescendoed.

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