When we finished, I turned to the band. “What about Baby Love?”
“It’s not a standard,” Jeff, my bassist said.
“It’s a slow ballad though. It would probably fit,” Billy, the drummer, said.
The rest of the band nodded that it was worth the try to do an original song. This song wasn’t just original, it was old. I’d written it years ago based on a poem I discovered Trina had written. The baby in question was Sinclair’s child, but the words could also represent romantic love.
“For fun, we’d like to play you one of our own original songs. I hope you like it. It’s called Baby Love.” I watched Trina as we played the opening notes.
“My heart beats for you, my breath breathes for you…” I started.
Trina’s gaze jerked to me, her eyes narrow. I continued to sing the words she once wrote for my sister and her unborn child. Her breath caught the moment she knew for sure I was singing her words. I smiled, wanting to acknowledge the beautiful poem and hoping she liked the music I’d set it to.
But what I saw instead was anger. Her face a
ctually turned red, and if steam coming out of the ears was a real thing, I was sure that’s what would be happening to her. She turned and hurried out of the large room.
What the hell? I thought, but I continued to finish the song.
“Hey, Harry. How about you come up and sing Beyond the Sea?” It was the only other Bobby Darin song we knew.
“Oh, I don’t know.” He blushed.
“Come on,” I urged, watching the door to see if Trina was coming back in.
“Yes, Harry.”
“Come on Harry.”
The room chanted for him to sing.
He came up and I relinquished the mic to him. I left the stage and rushed from the room, hoping I could find Trina.
She wasn’t in the hall. I tried several doors, but they were locked. Finally, my only option was that she was in the ladies’ room or outside. I went out into the parking lot. The air was warm and smelled of summer.
“God damn him!”
I turned to see Trina pacing, kicking rocks, and cursing.
“What’s wrong?” I said, approaching carefully in case she wanted to lash out. I had no doubt that she could do some damage if she wanted to kick my ass.
She whirled on me. “You had no right to use my poems. My private words for Sinclair. It was fucked up when you did it to make fun of me ten years ago and it’s fucked up now.”
I’d never heard her use the f-word before, so this was a clue that she was well and truly pissed.
“Whoa, wait. I’m not making fun of you.”
“The hell you aren’t. That stupid little ditty you sang ten years ago? Everyone in Salvation was laughing at me. And now? Making fun of me again…” She started to storm off, but I caught her arm, ready to duck if she swung at me.
“You’ve got it all wrong. I liked your poems, especially this one. That’s why I put it to music.”
“You’re just teasing me. That’s all you do, Ryder. You poke and tease and make fun of me.”
Holy shit, was that what she thought? Was that why she was always so prickly toward me? “That’s not true.” I carefully took her other arm and tried to rub them both to calm her.
She pulled back, leaning against the outside of the building. I hated how defeated her expression was.
“Trina.”