Wreck the Halls: A Novel

When Beat walked into his mother’s dining room later that afternoon—the new cameraman plodding in behind him—he could have heard a pin drop.

Octavia picked up her tall, slim glass of seltzer garnished with cranberries and sipped daintily, watching Beat over the rim through narrowed eyes. He sat down across from her with a sigh, setting his iPad and paper files down in front of him. He folded his hands and waited for her to start making sounds again. It might be time to face the music about his trip to Trina’s New Hampshire compound, but he’d also be getting some work done.

Work. That was all he’d done after being dropped off. He treasured his position at Ovations and took it seriously. But today? He was just thankful for the distraction. Without decisions to be made regarding the scholarship, he would be climbing the walls.

Even now, it was a feat of inhuman proportions not to punch a few buttons on the iPad and watch Melody’s live stream. He’d watched long enough this morning to make sure she arrived at a hotel and made it to her room safe and sound, before forcing himself to turn it off. Obviously, she’d wanted time alone and he should respect that. Millions of people were watching her every move. Then again, the person she’d needed space from was him.

Beat rubbed at the strained muscles of his throat and reached for his own drink, a tumbler of scotch, that had already been waiting for him upon arrival. He started to sip, but the burn was too welcome and he downed the whole goddamn thing.

“My goodness,” Octavia murmured, leaning back in her chair. “Trying to banish the memory of my ex-bandmate? Can’t say I blame you.”

“Remember you’re being recorded.”

“What, me? Forget about the cameraman? He doesn’t exactly blend in, dear.”

Beat’s eyes ticked up to the oversized mirror hanging on the wall, catching the reflection of the new guy. Ernest. Octavia’s entire dining room was decorated in a pristine white. A crystal candelabra and chandelier sparkled, along with the white garland and twinkling lights she’d added for the holidays. Ernest, who said to call him Ernie, was in black-and-gray flannel, his beard red and bushy, looking about as comfortable as a wrestler at a dance recital.

“It sounds like you watched the live stream,” Beat said, dryly, nodding his thanks to the housekeeper who breezed in and refilled his glass of scotch. “Thoughts?”

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“That makes two of us.”

When he fully expected his mother to express her anger over the fact that Trina very obviously hadn’t requested the reunion, as they’d led her to believe, she surprised him by leaning across the table and stabbing a finger into the gleaming surface. “I demand to know what happened in that attic last night.”

Beat’s hand froze in the act of reaching for his glass, then dropped. “What?”

“Oh, don’t you dare feign shock with me. The entire world is speculating. You should see the message boards—they’ve lit up like a Christmas tree.” She sniffed. “The way I see it, I should be privy to the truth as compensation for being totally betrayed.”

“You’re being a little dramatic, Mom.”

“Me? A woman carried in on the backs of swan-men, dramatic? You don’t say.”

Beat bared his teeth in a smile. “There isn’t a chance in hell I’m telling you what happened in the attic.”

Octavia stuck out her bottom lip. “Magnificent Mel didn’t seem herself afterward.”

Beat’s insides did their best to cram their way into his mouth. Didn’t seem herself afterward. He’d done that. He’d driven her away. “You met Melody for all of ten minutes,” he rasped, his hand unsteady as it closed around his tumbler, dragging the drink in front of him, but suddenly lacking the strength to pick it up.

“Yes,” his mother said slowly. “Although isn’t it odd? I feel as if I’ve known her much longer.” If she only knew how much Beat could relate. “And if you must know, I’ve become something of a Melody-head since the gala, even though she told me a minor fib.” She frowned over that statement while throwing herself back into her chair. “Liking her so much is very disconcerting, considering she sprung forth from the womb of a trifling banshee.” She gestured to the camera with her drink. “Trina, if you’re watching, where did you find your housemates, darling? Backstage at an Everclear concert?” Octavia’s laughter was smug. “She’ll know what that means.”

“Maybe we should change the subject,” Beat muttered, opening the file folder in front of him. “I’ve narrowed the field down to five applicants—”

“No, no. You’re not getting off the hook that easy.” She pursed her lips, obviously trying to appear casual. “When might you be bringing Melody over for dinner? I’m told she likes beignets. If French cuisine is her thing, I’m going to hire out the chef from La Bernadin.”

Beat’s chest was currently held together by a zipper and with each mention of Melody, it was lowered a little more, everything on the verge of spilling out. “Is there any way we could avoid talking about this in front of millions of people?”

“Are you serious?” Octavia seemed genuinely perplexed. “Are you aware of how much you’ve been saying on camera, whether or not you actually say a single word?”

His pulse picked up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean”—she wiggled her fingers at the camera—“you haven’t exactly been . . . subtle about your feelings. Or don’t you remember threatening to drive a tractor into the side of that Podunk jail to get Melody out? And honestly, no one blames you. What man could be subtle with Magnificent Melody on the line?”

Beat had no earthly idea how to answer that. So many times over the last week, he’d tried to pump the brakes around Melody, make his infatuation less obvious. Apparently he hadn’t been remotely successful. Why was he bothering to try and deny it now? At this stage, he was probably only making himself look like a fool. “You’ve been watching the live stream all day?” Beat asked, gruffly, waiting for his mother’s nod. “How is she? Is she okay?”

“She’s restoring an old copy of Animal Farm. Lord help me, it shouldn’t be so riveting, but she keeps up this delightful commentary. I simply couldn’t turn it off.”

He would have sold his soul in that moment to see Melody, head bent over a book in her magnifying glass hat, explaining the restoration procedure in her unique tone of voice, so full of humor and grace.

Octavia’s expression turned triumphant. “See? Look at you. One mention of her and your eyes melt like candle wax. You look like Woody from Toy Story when Andy didn’t take him to college.” Octavia gestured impatiently at the cameraman. “Are you getting this?”

Beat pinched the bridge of his nose and held on to his patience while Ernie circled to the other side of the table to get a better angle of his face. “What do you want from me, Mom? You want me to admit I have feelings for Melody?”

“At this stage, it’s merely a formality. But yes.” She waved at the cameraman. “Get me in the background. They’re sure to use this clip as promo and I look fucking hot.”

A smile couldn’t help but tug at Beat’s lips. “I have every single feeling for her.”

His mother yelped at that statement. “Then where is she?”

“Getting a well-deserved break from me.” He tried to swallow and couldn’t. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think she’ll be coming over for dinner anytime soon. Not as my date, anyway. As my friend? Maybe.” His mouth tasted bitter. “If I have to accept that, so do you.”

Octavia thought about it. “No. And you can’t make me.”

The housekeeper rushed into the room and whispered something in Octavia’s ear, making her eyes widen with interest. “Wait until you hear this. Melody is ordering room service.” She listened to the housekeeper some more. “Spaghetti and a Diet Coke? Damn. Now I don’t know if I should hire a French or Italian chef for our dinner.”

Beat wanted to roll his eyes, except he’d been holding his breath to find out her order, too. “I came here thinking you were going to read me the riot act over Melody’s claim that Trina wanted the reunion. Instead, you’re starting a Melody fan club.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you be a member?”

He looked down at the paperwork without really seeing it. “I’d be the president.”

When he thought Octavia might say I told you so, she tilted her head at him instead. “What’s the problem, Beat?”

“That’s between me and her.”

“And the attic.” She hesitated. “Just blink twice if there was nudity.”

“Really, Mom.”

“I’m a rock star! Nothing shocks me!”

If he didn’t turn the tables, this conversation was going to venture further into the place he didn’t want it to go—definitely not publicly. “Are you still in for the reunion?”

Octavia’s smile froze over. She reached for her glass. “Moot point, isn’t it? Trina said no, didn’t she?” Adding in a mutter, “Petty old witch.”

Beat couldn’t help but remember the look on Trina’s face last night when Melody was singing. Even before that, when Melody stood up to her, she’d been almost . . . transfixed. Thoughtful. Like she’d been trapped in a time capsule and someone had finally opened the hatch. “I don’t know. Danielle has us booked on the Today show Tuesday morning and apparently has a ‘trick up her sleeve.’ Although something tells me Trina is still considering the reunion, despite her unequivocal no.”

“The way Melody took her to task . . .” Octavia stared off into the distance, a bemused smile on her face. “That was something to see, wasn’t it? You were both off-key in the second verse of ‘Rattle the Cage,’ but nobody noticed. And I didn’t post about it on the message boards.” She scratched her eyebrow. “That definitely wasn’t me.”

“Right.”

“It was me.”

“Yes, I know.” He tapped a finger against the open file. “Can we discuss these applicants now?”

“One more thing. I gathered during my many hours of Melody viewing today that she’s very nervous about this bocce match tomorrow night.” She gave Beat a pointed look. “Perhaps she could use some moral support.”

The very idea of Melody nervous about anything made Beat want to sink down onto the floor and never come up. Still . . . “She doesn’t want that from me right now.”Content rights belong to NôvelDrama.Org.

“Oh, darling.” Sympathy shone in his mother’s eyes. “Didn’t I mention? She’s not being subtle about her feelings, either. Friends shmends.”

“It’s complicated,” he said, hoarsely.

“Are you in love with her?”

His heart answered for him, pounding behind his jugular. “Yes.”

Tempered joy flooded Octavia’s expression. “Then perhaps you should uncomplicate it.”

*  *  *

December 18

The following night, Beat walked into his friend’s party, handing over the bottle of champagne he’d brought—and he tried valiantly to pretend like the entire proceeding didn’t screech to a standstill at his appearance.

“Beat . . .” Vance greeted him at the door looking like he’d seen a ghost. “We . . . I . . . you’re here? I didn’t expect you to come.”

“Really?” He leaned in for a backslapping hug. “I RSVP’d in November.”

“That was before you were a worldwide sensation.”

Vance’s eyes widened as the associate producer, Steve, ducked into the apartment, further drawing the attention of every guest in the room. “Sorry to interrupt, folks, but I’m going to need everyone to sign a waiver. If you choose not to be on camera . . . what’s wrong with you? But okay. I’ll need your name and the official diagnosis. Just kidding. But seriously. I’m sure everyone here is excited to be on the live stream. Please step this way and sign the waiver, one by one. As quickly as possible, please, so we can get filming.”

Beat’s top layer of skin was on fire, head to toe. This shit was manageable when Melody was around. They were in it together. But doing it alone made him feel like a clown. “I’m sorry about this,” he said to Vance. “I tried calling you to explain . . .”

“Shit. I’ve been running around for the last few hours. My place was an actual pigsty until about ten minutes ago. No bullshit.” Vance gaped as the line of guests formed, his gaze swinging back to Beat. “I have ten thousand questions. And I’m not going to ask you any of them.”

Beat’s breath escaped like helium from a balloon. “Thank you.”

“But someday you’re going to get drunk and tell me everything.”

“Sure. I’m going to sing like a canary.”

Vance laughed, studying his face closely. “No, you’re not.” He opened his mouth, closed it, and started again. “I always had this weird intuition that I didn’t know the real Beat Dawkins, you know? Now I know it wasn’t just a feeling. It’s true. After seeing you with Melody . . .” Someone across the room called both their names and Vance turned to wave, Beat following suit even though his arm suddenly weighed a hundred pounds. “You’ve kept a lot of yourself hidden, haven’t you?”

Any other night, Beat would have pretended not to see the hurt and confusion in his friend’s eyes, made a joke, and veered the conversation into a different lane. But Vance was the second person to call him on his behavior in the space of thirty-six hours . . . and Beat couldn’t run from the accusation anymore. Had he taken his quest for privacy way too far? Was he now driving people away by keeping his hopes and fears and secrets buried under the surface?

It seemed so. His friend was looking at him like he barely knew him.

Melody wasn’t standing at his side where she belonged. And yet she guided him now, her voice in his head, always revealing herself with such bald honesty. No pretense. No fear. God, he wanted to be more like her and holy shit, he missed her so much his bones ached.

“It’s habit, you know?” Beat coughed into his fist. “I had to keep things to myself growing up to maintain Octavia’s privacy. Later on, I sort of realized that when I spoke about my life to other people . . . my advantages became very obvious. I guess I just started keeping things to myself out of habit. I didn’t mean to be . . . hidden.”

Vance nodded slowly. “And with Mel . . .”

“With Mel, it’s like we’re both . . . in the same hiding spot. Together.”

His friend visibly suppressed a laugh. “I have terrible news, man, you’ve been doing the opposite of hiding.” He squinted an eye. “How drunk do I have to get you to find out—”

“The attic? There isn’t enough alcohol in New York City.”

“Had to shoot my shot.”

“But did you?”

That was their last private moment before friends and acquaintances joined them, having finished signing the waivers. Ernie fired up the camera, the red light blinking, lens trained on Beat as he made forced small talk with friends of friends who obviously wanted to ask him about Wreck the Halls and the status of the reunion . . . and Melody.

What was she doing right at that moment? If she were here, he would trade a knowing look with her, because she would understand how everyone he spoke with wanted to pry and was valiantly holding themselves back. How he felt like not enough on his own, not enough without the juicy information about his famous family. How they were hoping Beat would offer a tidbit without them having to ask. He and Melody had performed these steps since they were children and in a short space of time, he’d gotten used to dancing with her, not without.

Half an hour into the party and Beat was no longer hearing the conversation around him. His gaze continually strayed to the window facing east—toward Brooklyn. Melody’s bocce match would be starting right now. He’d called Danielle this afternoon to ask about the security they planned on providing and she’d been cagey, mumbling under her breath that the network was working with the NYPD to control the expected crowd.

Thinking about tiny Melody in the middle of all that mayhem caused a bead of sweat to roll down his back. She was dealing with Magnificent Melody Mania while he was in this private apartment without any need for security. She’d asked for space, but this was just wrong. Even if they’d hired enough security to protect the pope, no one could care for her like Beat.

“Excuse me,” Beat murmured to the couple telling him about their first concert in a crystal-clear effort to broach the subject of Steel Birds. “I have to make a call.”

That wasn’t true. He’d just reached his breaking point. He’d made it thirty-six hours without watching Melody’s live stream and that was all he could handle.

Beat closed himself in the bathroom and sat down on the edge of the bathtub, phone already in hand. He tapped the network app and opened the split screen, laughing without humor over the surreal quality of watching himself in conversation with party guests on one side, while Melody rode in the back of a dark SUV on the other.

In seconds, his palms were clammy, his pulse struggling to remain even. His breathing became ragged at the sight of her. God almighty, she looked beautiful. No, she was beautiful. Her Melody-ness didn’t require any effort—she simply embodied it. Breathless vulnerability meets poise. Charm and bravery. Kindness with the right amount of skepticism. There was nobody like her in the entire world. And he wanted her sitting in his lap so he could tell her.

But he’d lost that privilege. She’d been clear.

Friends. They were going to be the best of friends.

If only his heart could get on board with that reality.

Beat watched Melody on the screen of his phone, watched her eyes widen in alarm as she turned the corner onto the block of her bocce bar venue. Red and blue lights reflected in the inside windows of the SUV and Mel shrunk down into the seat, the bodyguard sitting beside her shifting, preparing. Jesus, what was she walking into?

Whatever it was, he needed to be there.

Yeah, she’d asked for space. But she’d also called Beat her best friend. She wanted that, right? If he couldn’t be more to her than a friend, he would ignore the catastrophic yearning in his chest and he would be the best goddamn friend she could ask for.

Maybe . . . he’d even find the courage tonight to give Melody the remaining portions of his trust, which he’d been guarding so long he probably wouldn’t know where to begin.

She’ll help. She makes everything easier.

“I have to go,” Beat said to the empty bathroom. Then to the phone, “Mel, I’m coming.”

Beat lunged off the toilet and threw open the bathroom door, dodging the line of people waiting to use the toilet. Urgency throbbed in his temples. He really didn’t have time to stop and say goodbye, but after his earlier exchange with Vance, he owed it to his friend not to bail without a word.

It took Beat a moment to locate Vance and when he did, what he saw in the living room took a moment to register. Everyone at the party was gathered around a laptop watching Mel on one side of the screen, him on the other. They all turned slowly. Guiltily.

Vance winced. “Sorry, it’s just . . . the bocce match is starting.”

A young woman gestured to the laptop, champagne sloshing over the side of her flute. “It’s basically the World Cup final of reality shows. Or whatever this is.”

“You’re going, aren’t you?” Vance asked.

On the screen, Melody was helped from the vehicle by a security guard to the epic roar of a police-barricaded crowd and Beat’s legs turned to rubber. “If she’s there . . .” His exhale stung his lungs. “I should already be there, too.”

Someone on the fringe of the group burst into tears. “He loves her so much. Why can’t I have what they have?”

Sorry, mouthed Vance, before his expression turned thoughtful. Out loud he said, “You want us to come along as backup? We could make one hell of a cheering section.”

No.

That was his gut reaction. To go it alone. To keep his friends boxed off so they wouldn’t see the more authentic sides of him. But they’d been watching him in his rawest form on the live stream for days, hadn’t they? There was no use hiding now. And didn’t Melody deserve the biggest cheering section he could offer her?

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Come with me.”

A loud chorus of hoots and hollers went up, everyone rushing to collect their coats and down the remaining champagne in their glasses.

“Hey, Vance. You wouldn’t happen to have any pink paint lying around, would you?”