The Right Song

  SHANE MORGAN

  Copyright © 2014 Shane Morgan

  TSW Books

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in any format. Please do not partake in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Purchase authorized editions only.

  Cover Image © Yeko Photo Studio. Signed model release filed with Shutterstock, Inc.

  Formatted by Shane Morgan

  Copyedited by Taylor K. Editing

  “Never Let Me Go” © Florence + the Machine. Universal Republic. “Walk Away © Kelly Clarkson. RCA.

  Other song lyrics used are original and owned by Shane Morgan

  ISBN-13: 978-0692230428 [paperback]

  This is a work of fiction and is a product of the author’s imagination. Anything mentioned that relates to actual names, events, places, or institutions are used fictitiously.

  Also by Shane Morgan

  Unresisting

  Impossibly Love

  Impossibly True

  Finding Julian

  Our Kind of Love

  www.shanemorganwrites.com

  facebook.com/authorshanemorgan

  instagram.com/shanemwrites

  goodreads.com/shanemorgan

  twitter.com/itchingforbooks

  Summary

  Pain never truly goes away, until you find something deeper and meaningful that cures the heart and fills it with love.

  That is what Aurora desperately wants to believe. That somehow her music can save her, or even touch the unreachable heart of the guy she has liked for years.

  Rora yearns for his attention and wants to experience this so-called love that could possibly end her long suffering and inspire her to chase after her dreams.

  In deeply understanding the feelings of others and herself, will Aurora give up on ever finding true happiness, or will an intriguing soul teach her about the greatest song ever written?

  For Tim,

  You’ve given me the greatest song ever written.

  Prologue

  The crowd roars. Some chant my name while others sing the lyrics to the song that brought me to this moment. It sets off a wild party of butterflies in my stomach. My heart starts racing and my knees shake. The music rises throughout the arena—my cue to take the stage.

  I look behind at the guy that inspired me to reach this point, giving his hand a soft squeeze. He smiles, then nods approvingly for me to go for it.

  A wave of confidence washes over my body; I slip out of the safety of his grasp and walk out in front of the many eager fans waiting to hear me sing.

  Taking center stage, I clasp my hands around the microphone stand, close my eyes, and inhale a deep breath.

  As the electrifying guitar riffs blast off, accompanied by the haunting melodies of the keyboard, I part my lips and allow the words to seep out of my heart.

  I open my eyes to glance over the crowd. A smile makes its way to my lips as I notice they’re singing along with me.

  We escape into the lyrics, united in this moment of bliss. It warms my heart, knowing I’ve touched theirs.

  This is why I’ve worked so hard. I’m here now. And it’s only the beginning.

  1.

  One year earlier…

  Sometimes I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff. Behind me are ear-splitting drums pounding so hard, urging me to jump. But that doesn’t mean the end, for at the bottom lies a great escape; where I’m once and for all unafraid of living my life and there are no chains holding me back.

  The sound of the drums dissipates as I watch the clock on the wall. Time isn’t moving fast enough. I want to get the hell out of here. My eyelids are heavy, and I’m just about ready to give in to sleep.

  Dr. Stewart teaches the most boring Human Biology class at Seville High School. And being as exhausted as I am after a rocking weekend—two birthday parties and a show at Lights Out—I doubt I’ll make it through this entire lecture awake.

  Sure enough, I’m barely thirty minutes into the period, and I find myself dozing off, using Chuck’s beefy body as a shield to block myself from the professor’s view.

  To say I had a quick nap is indeed an understatement, because my rest lasts less than a few minutes before he notices me.

  His voice is peppered with irritation as he grunts, “Ms. Lawrence, are you sleeping in my class?”

  My head springs up to see him sauntering down the aisle. I smile innocently, but my angel face doesn’t work.

  He fixes his reading glass on his nose and scrunches up his face. “I expect a two page paper on the importance of understanding genetics by the next class.”

  Silent laughter echoes around the room. “But…” I make to protest. He turns his back on me and continues his lecture.

  Oh that’s just super.

  After Bio, I literally drag my tired body down the hall to my locker, flashing pretentious smiles at unfamiliar faces and those who would otherwise ignore me had I not been in Days End.

  “Hey! You rocked at Lights Out!” one partygoer shouts.

  I hear that a lot after most weekends, so I’ve grown accustomed to it. Being the lead guitarist in an indie rock band attracts randomness. I’m talking high-fives and hugs as if you’ve been friends for ages.

  It’s actually kind of cool when you think about it, and what makes it way cooler is that I’m a girl. But it does get annoying at times. I mean, none of them are my real friends, and I bet after Days End really ends, none of them will give me a second glance. It’ll go back to the way it was before, when I was Aurora nobody.

  Though, I am somewhat of a nobody even now, because most people call me “girl with the guitar.” I don’t care, though. None of it matters; the one person’s attention I desire most doesn’t even look my way.

  I wish he’d turn up to one of our shows and see how good I am—impress him into liking me. That’s silly, I know.

  The guy I’m talking about is Milo Whitmore or Hot Whit as he’s referred to by most girls at Seville High.

  Milo’s one of the most popular guys at our school. He’s well-liked because he’s smart, funny, and kind. Oh, not to mention he’s super athletic and he’s our high school’s soccer star.

  If it’s not obvious by now, I like Milo—a lot. He’s the only guy I’ve liked all my life, and we tied the knot when we were ten years old. Okay, that is silly. But, he should at least acknowledge the fact that we used to be friends, even if it was in elementary school.

  Whenever I stare at him everything and everyone disappears. His low-cut, tousled, beach blonde hair is just perfect. It illuminates even in the crappiest lighting.

  His hazel eyes beam with kindness and his thin, strawberry lips seem to be waiting for me to kiss them.

  I could gawk at him all day; in class, by the lockers, in the cafeteria, and while he’s hanging around the parking lot with his friends before leaving school.

  I’m not a stalker, only an admirer.

  Hard to believe I never built up the courage to confess my adoration for him to this day. Then again, he might think I’m weird if I simply waltz up to him and say I’ve liked him since we were kids. I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time a girl in our school has professed her “undying love” for him.

  Milo would probably reject me, even though I was the girl who befriended him when he first moved to Seville eight years ago, the girl he promised to spend the rest of his life with, back then.

  Anyway, my point is that in spite of blossoming into a good-looking eighteen-year-old girl, with great assets I might add, Milo doesn’t speak to me. He hasn’t spoken to me in a long time.

  Staring at him now, caught up in an animated conversation with his friend, Ryan, by the lockers, it hits me: I’ve basically wasted all these years lusting. So, what do I h
ave to lose with only two months left before graduation?

  I hesitantly step toward Milo. A genuine laugh bursts out of him as Ryan shares a joke. Maybe the longer I wait, the more time they’ll have to wrap up their conversation.

  But like rain on my parade, Ryan doesn’t seem to be leaving, and Milo makes no indication of heading to his next class, either.

  Great!

  Okay. It’s no big deal. Just go for it.

  I pause, swallow down the rush of anxiety, and clear my throat to interrupt their conversation, which naturally is about soccer. “Um… hey, Milo,” I say, waving shyly in an almost royal manner. So lame.

  The expression on Ryan’s face is of utter repugnance. He arches a brow as he scowls at me, clearly wondering how I could even approach someone of Milo’s caliber.

  Whatever. I could care less. My business is not with him.

  “Hey…?” Milo offers back, sounding polite and curious at the same time. He turns fully to face me; one side of his mouth curls up, appearing interested.

  I suck in a breath and exhale fast before saying, “So listen, my band’s playing tomorrow night at Lights Out, and I was wondering if you weren’t too busy, then maybe you could swing by?”

  I feel relieved that I was able to get my words out without making a fool of myself. It makes me smile… on the inside that is.

  Sticking my hands in my pockets, I rock back and forth on the heels of my flats. I hope he doesn’t see how nervous I am or hear my heart walloping loud with expectancy.

  Damn, I’m as jerky as rusty cogs on a wheel. Playing my guitar in front of a crowd isn’t as scary as talking to him. Still, it’s not a bad thing when the girl makes the first move, right?

  While waiting for his answer, I drench myself in the depths of his eyes—the combination of light brown and dark green mesmerizes every fiber of my being. I find it hard to stifle my smile now. He’s like a classic Elvis Presley love song with melting lyrics.

  But when he narrows his eyes and angles his head to the side, something plunges in my stomach.

  I fall out of my dreamy state to the realization that Milo is trying to remember me.

  You’ve got to be kidding. He’s messing with me, right?

  My smile falters even more when he confirms my fears. “Sorry, um… what band is it? And who are you again?”

  That is so not the reaction I was hoping for.

  “Ouch.” Ryan chokes on his own laughter. Milo shoots him a glare that says “shut up”.

  My chest swells. I feel lightheaded. I take a step back, totally dumbstruck. There is nothing more humiliating than being asked to clarify my identity when we’ve had some of the same classes together since we were ten.

  Wow. Am I that forgettable?

  I drop both hands to my side and debate whether or not I should remind him just who I am, or walk away and pretend as if the last few minutes never happened. I do the latter.

  Milo gasps the second I twirl around. “Wait,” he calls out, concerned.

  Ryan’s laughter increases as I scamper down the hall, trying to escape the pathetic scene.

  Was I too much of an idiot? Should I have explained myself? Hell no. I’ll never approach Milo again. Ever!

  The fact that he hadn’t noticed me all this time is the proof I needed that someone like me, Aurora Lawrence, an aspiring musician, doesn’t stand a chance with someone like Milo Whitmore, future Columbia University graduate and destined doctor.

  2.

  Well, that sucked. I arrive at Econ and flop down in my seat. While I fiddle around in my bag for my notebook and a pen, my stomach tenses as I rehash what just occurred by the lockers. Maybe I’ll put the experience in my songbook later tonight and bury it with the other bad stuff I want to forget.

  Music is therapy, Aunt Leah would say. She isn’t exactly the motherly type, being we were shoved together after a tragedy none of us had expected, but she does her best, anyway.

  Leaning back in my seat, I turn my head slightly and gaze across the room, looking out the side window. Miss Martin’s voice fades as I become fascinated by the trees nimbly dancing in the spring breeze. They cause the sunlight to dazzle my eyes. And like the flash of a camera, it triggers the night of my tenth birthday.

  We were driving home from the restaurant, happier than ever. The distinctive scent of cinnamon inside Dad’s Volkswagen is still fresh in my nostrils. Their vigorous laughter assured me of how great life was, and the moment when my mom leaned over to the backseat and cupped my cheeks with joy remains imprinted in my brain forever. Then of course, I remember when it all came to an end.

  The memory of the accident is so vivid. To this day, I still hear their screams and the screeching of rubber burning on asphalt. It was one of the best and worst nights of my life.

  No amount of days or melodies will heal the hurt. The memory will always haunt my dreams and creep into my head as soon as I open my eyes. The feeling of regret will continue to linger in my heart.

  It’s such a cold feeling that lurks beneath the mask, telling me I lived and they died.

  No one will ever understand what it’s like to have the anniversary of my parents’ death on my birthday. It’s so twisted to celebrate and put a smile on my face every year.

  Pretend? What a terrible thing to do. So they’ll be happy? So they’ll think I’m happy, that I’m okay? Aurora, it’s your birthday! Woohoo!

  Yeah, that’s never going to happen. I can’t fake it.

  Miss Martin slams her book shut, startling me from the tragic scene playing over and over in my head, like a busted old black and white film—grains and all.

  I breathe deeply to lull the emotions crashing down on me and stretch my hands out on top of the desk. My body relaxes when I realize she didn’t intend that gesture for me.

  Hunching over, I bring my attention back to the textbook to catch up with the class.

  A few seconds pass when I start to feel a strange onset of uneasiness engulf me, and I’m compelled to look over to my right. Just as I allow my eyes to glance in that direction, they lock with a pair of intense, deep browns, and I feel as if an intriguing story lies behind them.

  Grasping that he’s been caught, Daegan lowers his head fast, wets his lips, and continues sketching, leaving me to wonder why he was staring at me like that. For some odd reason, I’m curious about the many times he’s done it before.

  Daegan Stone and I have never said anything to each other before, although our paths have crossed far more times than I can count.

  I’ve spotted him at some of our shows. Only, it’s probably because his dad, Martin, owns the Lights Out lounge where Days End frequents. Daegan helps clean up.

  Not once has he ever started a conversation with me. Then again, I’ve never tried to start one with him, either. So, that leads me back to the question, why was Daegan Stone staring at me like he knows something I don’t? And why is it I’ve never made contact with those evocative eyes before?

  3.

  After final period, I walk to the parking lot to wait for Emma. We’ve been best friends since inside the womb. She’s the kind of person who never hurts a friend and is always there when you need her.

  Emma spent many nights at my house after my parents died, comforting me while I cried myself to sleep. I’ll never forget that. She’s my soul sister. We are bonded for life.

  “Hey, Law,” she calls out, strutting towards me with her red satchel in hand, gigantic shades hiding those shiny blue eyes, and her sandals making a rumpus as she comes down the pavement.

  “Hey, Ems,” I wave back, shaking my head at her jaunty personality.

  We blow air kisses as she reaches my car—a 2006 Volvo 240, which was originally Aunt Leah’s, but she gave it to me after buying herself a Jeep.

  I spill everything as soon as Emma hops inside and closes the door. By the time I reach the last word, she blurts out, “Oh my God! You did what? Why?”

  Her hands flail around and then she gives me a pat on the head. I
roll my eyes and tilt my head skyward before turning the key in the ignition.

  “Sorry,” I snort. “I just wanted to get it out before we leave this place, you know? I didn’t want any regrets. But holy crap, Em, I can’t believe he doesn’t know who—”

  “You didn’t do it right,” she cuts me off. “You have the perfect opportunity to talk to him in English because he sits right behind you. Hello. Why would you ruin it by approaching him in a crowded place, like by the lockers, and worst of all in front of Mr. Big Mouth, Ryan Osteen?”

  She collapses back in the seat, releasing an exasperated breath as she massages her temple like the world is caving in on her.

  In no time she starts up again. “Give it two days or so, and if he doesn’t bring it up, I advise you to forget Milo Whitmore entirely.” She purses her lips to apply pink gloss, and then she fixes her salon-cut, flawless, shoulder-length blonde hair.

  I sigh. “You’re missing the point. He doesn’t remember me.” I reverse out of the school parking lot. Disappointment starts to hit me like gritty stones from a slingshot.

  “I can’t believe he doesn’t know who I am,” I mumble, tears threatening to fall. But I’m well-guarded. I refuse to let my emotions get the best of me, and I’m certainly not about to cry over a guy—one that doesn’t even know I exist. No matter how impeccably gorgeous he is.

  Humph. Yeah right. I’m never going to get over Milo.

  Emma reaches across to squeeze my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Law. He is an idiot for not knowing you’re Aurora Lawrence, the first friend he had when he moved here, and the girl that stood up to Teddy for him,” she reassures me with a titter.

  The name brings up memories I can never forget.

  When Milo moved to Seville, he was picked on for getting popular too fast. Teddy, a kid in our fifth grade class, despised him.

  I remember the day he attacked Milo in the playground near school. It was exactly three months after my parents died, so I had a lot of pent up anger and Teddy was the perfect punching bag. Let’s just say that for a ten-year-old, I really let him have it.