It was still difficult to reconcile in my mind that the little Paloma I’d written to as a teenager for her English class was now all grown up and apparently, a popular and beloved rock star who toured the world, cussed like a sailor, and was living her childhood dreams. The same dreams she’d told me about via our letters.
Yesterday, after returning home from dropping off more produce at the co-op to Stevie, I deliberately avoided Googling her name again knowing that I’d be potentially meeting her tonight at the bar. Instead, I kept myself occupied with my new corn crop, focusing on the harvest rather than succumbing to my curiosity about her voice.
When I had searched for Paloma a few months before, the results hadn't included her music, but now I knew that searching forDove & the Valormight return more results, I decided to leave it alone. I wasn’t ready for it to lead me down a rabbit hole of her singing catalog—a journey I wasn't sure I should dive into yet.
Hearing her in front of me now, it was hard to believe that this woman couldn't be the same person I had found online months ago wearing a soccer jersey with her teammates. From the brief glimpse I’d caught before the elevator lights went out, she looked about the same. Though I hadn’t been able to confirm the color of her eyes, her hair, skin, and thicker curves suggested she had matured beautifully while retaining the confidence of the young girl that I’d once known.
“What do you do for a living?” I ask.
I can sense her hesitation in the darkness. From what little Stevie had shared, it seemed everyone in town knew and respected Dove's wishes for a quiet, normal life when she came home to visit. Perhaps she didn’t recognize my voice as someone from town, or maybe she was reluctant to open up to a strangerin such an intimate setting with nowhere to escape.
“I sing.”
Bingo.There is no way that this isn’t Dove.
“You sing for a living?”
Silence, then her giggle reaches my ears, and it’s the most beautiful sound I can imagine. I picture her laughing like that when she wrote one of her letters to me, filled with her ramblings about astrology and other nonsense she used to include in the pages she’d mail.
“I was nodding and just realized you can’t see me. Yes, I’m the lead singers in a band.”
“That’s cool. A band I’ve heard of?”
“Maybe. It’s a rock band. Not sure if that’s your type of music.”
“I like rock.”
I can hear her hesitation. She doesn't want to tell me her band’s name, or her name for that matter, so I change the subject instead of pushing forward.
For now.
"You ever been trapped in an elevator before?”
She laughs out loud easily; the sound like the wind chimes on my back porch that were left behind by the previous owner. When I’d purchasedEvergreen Farmsteadfrom the previous owner’s great-nephew, he’d told me that the wind chimes had been a gift to the late owner’s wife on their fiftieth anniversary spent together. I’d offered to take them down and give them to him so that he could keep them in the family, but he’d insisted they stay at the farm. Said the sound might bring me joy while living out there in solitude.
Now, with my eyes closed, hearing Dove’s easy laugh fill our unfortunate circumstances, I was certain I’d be enjoying those wind chimes much differently from now on. I can imagine howher voice must soar so effortlessly when she sings the music that she loves.
Damn me for not looking up her songs last night.
“Nope. And I'm relieved that you can't see me right now because I am super claustrophobic and have struggled with anxiety being stuck in tight spaces my whole life. I'm not handling this well. Do you mind if I sit next to you?”
I smile in the darkness. “Come on over.”
Dove.
Chapter 16 – Dallas
I can hear her body shuffling around, and then finally, feel her warm thighs, barely concealed in those tiny shorts she’s wearing press firmly against my leg.
Before the lights went out, I’d caught a fleeting glimpse of her outfit: dark black ripped shorts with a strategically placed tear just below one of her cheeks, black combat boots, and a snug, cropped black spaghetti-strap top. It was the quintessential rock star look, and while it wasn’t something that would have caught my eye in the past, I found myself completely captivated by it today.
Captivated by her.
I try picturing how we must look sitting here in the darkness next to each other. My legs folded in half attempting to fit into the tight space on the floor. Her curvy frame nestled neatly against mine as close as she can possibly get. I feel a shiver ripple through her body as she presses in closer.
“Are you cold?”
“No. Sometimes I shake when I get anxious. I think it’s a precursor to an anxiety attack. It feels like there's no air circulation in here.”
