Rocking the Second Act - Chapter Thirteen

Stillness

Rocking the Second Act is still very much a work-in-progress — I’m going back, polishing, and shifting things around as I go — so thank you for reading along in real time. If you’re new, you can find all the chapters here: Chapter index.

I you prefer to listen along, here is an audio version, read by me.

Zack

I wasn’t planning to watch it.

Someone tagged me in the comments – one of those old-school fans who still uses the flame emoji like it’s 2010 and I’m still worth setting fire to.

I clicked out of reflex.
Then I couldn’t stop watching.

It was Jasmine.
At a piano.
Barefoot. Hair loose. Singing like the whole fucking world had finally shut up just to listen.

And the song – Salt and Silence. The one she wrote and performed for the Whetu film, Boundaries of Blue.
Christ.

She used to be such a shit pianist.

I laughed out loud – sharp, startled, like someone had smacked me in the chest. She used to drive me mad with that bloody keyboard. Always insisted on writing at the piano even though her left hand barely cooperated.

I can still feel it: the old studio in London, the two of us crammed onto that ratty old piano stool, her shoulder against mine, her forehead scrunched in concentration.

She’d get the right hand going – melody, lyrics, pure feeling – but the left? It was like watching someone wrestle an octopus.

And losing.

I tried to fix it.
Tried to fix her.
Tapped keys beside her fingers. “No, it’s like this, you’re dragging the tempo.”
And she’d nod, even when she didn’t agree.

I thought I was helping.
I wasn’t.

But look at her now.
She’s not just playing – she’s inhabiting it.
Like the keys know her name now.

Her voice is older, rawer, no polish, no fucking apology.
It makes you ache.

I watched the whole clip twice, then a third time with the sound off just to look at her face. That calm. That fucking contentment.

She found it.
The thing we used to chase in circles.
The thing I tried to demand from music like it owed me something.
She let it find her.

And for once, I didn’t want to be the one beside her on the piano stool.
I just wanted her to keep playing.
No ghosts.
No baggage.
No me.

---

Two days later, she walked into rehab.
I didn’t think she would. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I fucking deserved it.

When Murray had asked if I wanted him to pass on where I was, I’d nodded – but never thought she’d actually show.

It felt like flicking a match into a drought.

But Jasmine turned up anyway.
Guitar case in one hand.
Sat down like it was just another afternoon, not a visit to the ruins.

And I broke.
Not quietly. Not the cinematic kind of crying that looks noble in silhouette. Loud, ugly, wet – the kind that rips through your chest until there’s nothing left but noise.

She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t look away.
Didn’t feed me the usual you’re so strong bullshit.

She just stayed.
Held my hand.
Said my name like she was stripping me back to something human.

And somehow, that was worse than any lecture.
Because I could feel how much I’d missed it – being seen without the performance.

When the storm finally passed, she reached for the guitar case where she’d leaned it against the wall.

“Peace offering,” she said, setting it on the bed. Then, with that twist of a half-smile she was famous for: “Or punishment. Dealer’s choice.”

I stared at it like it might bite me.
It wasn’t a collector’s piece or anything fancy – just a solid, battered acoustic that looked like it had survived more than either of us.

“You didn’t have to –”

“Yeah, I did.”

It landed somewhere between mercy and provocation.
Classic Jas.

I tried for a joke, because that’s what I do when I’m cornered.
“Careful. If you tuck it in, you’ll have to read it a bedtime story too.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. That sound – her soft, reluctant sigh – yeah, it still ranks high on my personal top ten.

We sat there for a bit, quiet.
The guitar between us.

I wanted to pick it up.
My hands itched for it.
But the thought made me sick.

“It’s weird,” I said finally. “It hasn’t even been that long. I should be able to just… play. But I can’t.”

She didn’t rush to fill the silence.
Just nodded. “You will when you’re ready.”

Of course she understood. She always did.
She could read my hesitation like sheet music.

After a while she said, “Did you watch Boundaries of Blue?”
I gave a short laugh. “Three times. Once drunk, once sedated, and once at three a.m. when the walls were breathing.”

She tilted her head. “That good?”

“Too good,” I said. “Your boy Jake nailed it – that push-and-pull between Daisy and Mike? Jesus. Watching her shrink so he could shine – felt like someone had bugged our old studio sessions.”

A shadow crossed her face, gone as fast as it came.

“And the score,” I added, softer now. “That song… Salt and Silence. That one hit hard.”

She smiled faintly, shoulders easing. “Yeah. That was mine.”

I looked at the guitar between us. “Yeah,” I agreed quietly. “That was us.”

“Maybe,” she shrugged, eyes on the floor. “Maybe it’s everyone.”

She said it lightly, but we both knew better. The air thinned for a second – that old ache hovering between us.

I tried to steer it somewhere safer. “The piano,” I said. “You used to drive me mad with that thing.”

Her head came up, amused. “Because you kept trying to fix my left hand.”

I let out a breath that almost became a laugh. “You made it sound like an exorcism.”

She grinned – full, unguarded. “Yeah, well, you acted like I was summoning demons in 4/4 time. I just read the room.”

That broke me. I laughed – really laughed – for the first time in weeks. It felt rusty, but good. Then it ebbed away, leaving the quiet behind.

I rubbed a hand over my face. “I thought I was helping.”

Her expression softened; the tease gone now. She knew I didn’t just mean her piano playing. “I know.”

And that was enough.

No recrimination, no saintly forgiveness. Just truth hanging there between us like music waiting to resolve.

“You’re better now,” I murmured. “Not just at playing. At… everything.”

She looked away, shy for once. “Took a while.”

“Worth it.”

She didn’t answer, but the smile that ghosted across her face told me she heard it.

When she stood to leave, she glanced at the guitar again.
“Still not touching it?”

“Not today.”

“That’s fine.” She hesitated at the door. “You should come by the garage sometime. Jake’s got a jam crew going. No pressure. Just noise therapy.”

I smirked. “You offering rehab for washed-up rockstars now?”

“Only the stubborn ones.”

“Then I’m definitely not ready.”

She grinned. “Then don’t be. Door’s still open.”

Her eyes flicked to the guitar one last time.
“So’s that.”

And then she was gone.

I sat there in the quiet, staring at the guitar on the bed.
Didn’t touch it.
Didn’t put it away either.

Just let it sit there – daring me to come back.