Loving A Moretti - THE OBSESSION

Chapter SEVENTEEN

By Saturday afternoon, I’d decided I was going to spend the rest of the day doing absolutely nothing.

Jennie had gone out to run errands with Dean, leaving me alone in the apartment for the first time in several days. I made coffee, put my phone on silent, and settled at the small keyboard near the window with a notebook balanced on my lap.

The page was already covered in crossed-out lines.

I tapped my pen against the paper, listening to the chorus in my head. The second line still felt too long, but I’d rewritten it so many times that I couldn’t tell whether it actually needed fixing or if I was simply tired of looking at it.

I played the progression again.

The chords were fine. The melody worked.

The lyrics were fighting me.

I leaned back and stared at the ceiling.

Writing songs had always been easier when nobody else was going to hear them. I could change a word twenty times, throw away an entire verse, or leave something unfinished for months without having to explain myself.

The moment someone else heard it, every little flaw seemed obvious.

I looked at the notebook then at my phone.

Larkin’s name was near the top of my recent conversations. I hadn’t planned on thinking about him.

Apparently, that plan had lasted about thirty seconds.

I picked up my phone and opened our messages.

ME: Do you listen to music while you work?

His reply came a few minutes later.

LARKIN: Sometimes.

ME: What kind?

LARKIN: Whatever doesn’t make me want to throw my computer out the window.

I laughed.

ME: Very specific.

LARKIN: You asked.

I looked at the keyboard again.

ME: Do you want to hear something?

This time, there was no immediate answer.

I stared at the screen, suddenly questioning the entire decision. I should have asked something less personal.

Maybe I should have waited until we knew each other better.

The typing bubble appeared.

LARKIN: Yes.

I smiled.

ME: It’s unfinished.

LARKIN: That’s okay.

I recorded a short section on my phone, listened to it once, then immediately wanted to delete it.

The recording caught the sound of my fingers against the keys and a faint mistake near the end.

I sent it before I could change my mind.

His response didn’t come right away.

I put the phone down and went back to the notebook.

Three minutes.

Five.

I was starting to regret sending it when my phone lit up.

LARKIN: You wrote that?

ME: Yeah.

LARKIN: I like it.

I smiled.

ME: You don’t have to say that.

LARKIN: I wouldn’t.

I read that twice.

Then another message appeared.

LARKIN: The melody feels unfinished, though.

I sat up.

ME: Excuse me?

LARKIN: You said it was unfinished.

ME: I know. I’m just offended you noticed.

His reply came with a laughing emoji.

I shook my head and put my phone beside the keyboard. For the next hour, I worked on the song.

It was easier somehow.

I changed the chorus, moved one section around, and eventually found a melody that sounded closer to what I had been hearing in my head.

When I finally stopped, the sun had shifted across the floor.

I looked at the clock.

Almost five.

I had completely lost track of time.

The front door opened.

“Belle?”

“In here.”

Jennie came into the apartment with two grocery bags hanging from her arms, while Dean followed behind with a paper bag tucked against his chest.

Jennie glanced toward the keyboard. “You’ve been sitting there this whole time?”

“Pretty much.”

Dean set the paper bag on the counter. “How’s the song?”

“Still terrible.”

Jennie laughed as she started unpacking the groceries. “So, a productive afternoon.”

Dean glanced at the notebook. “New song?”

“Maybe.”

He nodded toward it. “Can I hear it?”

“No. It’s bad.”

Jennie opened the refrigerator and laughed. “That’s never stopped you before. You used to make us listen to unfinished songs all the time.”

“I was younger.”

“You were seventeen.”

“Exactly.”

Dean laughed. I closed the notebook. Jennie glanced at my phone lying beside it. “You’ve been smiling at that thing a lot lately.”

I looked at the screen.

“Have I?”

She gave me a small smile. “A little.”

“Maybe I’m just happy.”

She didn’t push it.

Neither did Dean.

We ate in the kitchen, talking about nothing important. Dean complained about a parking ticket he’d almost gotten. Jennie told us about a woman she’d seen arguing with a cashier over a coupon. I laughed hard enough at one point that I nearly spilled my drink.

It felt normal.

That was what I liked about being with them. For a little while, everything could be ordinary. Later that evening, I went back to my room and opened my notebook again.

My phone buzzed.

LARKIN: Did you fix the song?

I smiled.

ME: Maybe.

LARKIN: Can I hear the new version?

I looked at the keyboard.

ME: You’re very demanding.

LARKIN: You offered.

I laughed.

ME: Fine.

I recorded the whole thing this time.

There were still things I wanted to change, but I didn’t stop halfway through. When I sent it, I set my phone down and went to get water.

By the time I came back, he had replied.

LARKIN: That’s better.

I frowned.

ME: You sound like my music teacher.

LARKIN: Was she difficult?

ME: Very.

LARKIN: Then I understand.

I smiled.

Another message appeared.

LARKIN: The second verse is my favorite.

I looked at the notebook.

That was the part I’d almost removed.

ME: Really?

LARKIN: Yeah.

I didn’t answer immediately.

Knowing he’d listened closely made me feel strangely exposed. He hadn’t just heard the song; he’d noticed the part I’d nearly taken out.

It should have made me uncomfortable.

Instead, I felt seen.

I finally typed:

ME: Nobody has heard that except me.

His reply took a moment.

LARKIN: Then I’m glad you let me.

I stared at the screen. I didn’t know what to say to that.

So I told him the truth.

ME: Me too.

A few minutes later, he called.

I answered from my bed. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“You liked it that much?”

“I did.”

I smiled into the pillow. “You’re being very nice.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

The silence that followed was easy. I stared at the ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of the apartment outside my room.

“I haven’t shown anyone a song in a long time.”

“Why?”

I thought about it. “Because people always have opinions.”

“I’m sure I have opinions.”

“You do.”

He laughed. “I just don’t want you changing it because I like something else.”

I turned onto my side. “That sounds suspiciously reasonable.”

“I have my moments.”

I smiled.

We talked about music for a while. I told him about the first instrument I’d learned and how I’d started writing songs because playing other people’s music eventually stopped being enough. He asked questions without trying to fill every silence, and when I couldn’t explain something properly, he waited until I figured out what I meant.

At some point, he asked, “Would you ever perform?”

“Maybe.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like people staring at me.”

“That doesn’t seem true.”

I laughed. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.”

“I know.”

Something in his voice made me pause.

He corrected himself almost immediately. “I mean, you’re comfortable when you’re doing something you care about.”

I smiled. “That sounds better.”

“Good.”

I glanced toward the window, watching the last of the afternoon light fade across the glass.

“I think I’d like to perform someday,” I admitted. “Somewhere small.”

“You should.”

“Maybe.”

“You will.”

I laughed softly. “You sound very confident.”

“I am.”

“About me?”

“Yes.”

I didn’t know why that made my chest feel warm.

We stayed on the phone until my eyes started getting heavy.

“I should let you sleep,” he said.

“You’re probably right.”

“Goodnight, Isabelle.”

“Goodnight.”

The call ended.

I put my phone beside my pillow and closed my eyes.

A few minutes later, something outside caught my attention.

I opened my eyes again.

A shadow moved across the curtains.

I sat up.

The apartment was quiet, but I could hear the television through the wall. Jennie and Dean were still awake in the living room.

I got out of bed and walked toward the window.

The street below looked normal. Cars passed, people moved along the sidewalk, and the usual city noise drifted up between the buildings.

A man stood near the entrance of the building across the street, looking down at his phone.

I watched him for a moment.

He didn’t look up.

I let the curtain fall back into place and turned away.

My phone lit up beside the bed.

For a second, my stomach tightened.

It was Larkin.

LARKIN: Forgot to say. Don’t delete the song.

I smiled.

ME: I wasn’t going to.

LARKIN: Good.

I put the phone down.

This time, when I looked toward the window, I didn’t move the curtain.

I went back to bed instead.