Page 37 of The Sound of Harmony

“Well, isn’t everyone?” Emma asked with mock severity. “Even jazz musicians are worried about jazz.”

“Yes, but I don’t care about them. I care about you. I don’t think you’ll like jazz.”

“It’s very chaotic,” she said.

“That’s what people like about it.”

“Some people.” She hated how snotty that sounded, but wouldn’t take the words back.

“Well, there’s only one thing for it,” Kendrick said.

“What’s that?”

“I thought we’d get here eventually.”

Emma guessed what was coming. She’d call it arrogance if he couldn’t back it up, mere healthy self-esteem if he could. But in any case, she was almost certain that he was going to play her one of his own compositions. She braced herself, ready to break the awful news that she hated that, too.

“You’ll have to play that other list I sent you,” Kendrick said.

“The one that’s unlabeled? How am I supposed to know what I’m listening to?”

“You’ll know it when you hear it,” he said.

“No, I won’t.” Emma twisted her blanket in her fists. “Kendrick, I’m not sure I want to.”

“Trust.”

“But what if—”

“Please. Trust me.”

Could she? Music was an emotion delivery system, but that didn’t mean she had to let her feelings get involved here. She’d listen to one of his compositions, say, “it’s fine,” and “it’s not for me,” and then they could move on.

She swallowed heavily, opened the new playlist, and started the first track.

The familiar dah-dah-dah-Dum of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony blared through her speakers.

“Horror movie music?” she asked. “Seriously?”

“I knew you’d recognize it.”

“Everybody recognizes it.”

“So we’re getting somewhere. It’s familiar so your mind accepts it. You haven’t turned it off yet. Want to keep listening?”

She did and she didn’t. This was some weird exposure therapy, but at least they weren’t listening to Kendrick’s pieces. She threw off her covers. She was overheating and her feet were suffocating. “What’s the rest of the list?” she asked.

“More or less the same.”

“What’s more?”

“Handel’s Water Music, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. The Mozart stuff from that movie. Music everyone’s heard before.”

Emma heard the songs in her head when she imagined them. “What about the less part?”

“Modern music in that same style. We can start with Eric Whitacre’s October since it’s the least offensive piece of music ever written. This is white bread. This is a sixty-five-degree day with no humidity. This is a vanilla scented candle from that kiosk in the mall.”

“Ringing endorsement,” she said.