I can say anything without gauging his mood or avoiding touchy subjects. His confidence makesmefeel confident.
But he doesn’tneedme.
Not like I need him.
I can’t let myself get used to this because he’s not mine.
I can’t keep him.
He’s the most reliable person in my life, which is why I have to stop blurring the lines. If we ever went there, we’d eventually have conflict and struggles like every other couple and all this would cease to exist.
Guys don’t drive their wives around in the middle of the night singing softly while they nap. A man who’s been married twenty years doesn’t stay awake and keep watch during a thunderstorm. They don’t bring your favorite ice-cold soda and put it in your hand without a word while you race a deadline. They don’t work through your math homework with you or take a day off to get your car fixed.
This is friendship. We connected over music and being older college students. He experienced the same kind of challenges—balancing work and assignments—just ahead of me. And he helps me the same way I help Annie and Sam.
My attention-starved brain finds this incredibly attractive at the moment. Maybe it’s my heart as well as my brain, but I hate to involve that naive little traitor. One day we’ll have separate lives and responsibilities. And it’s getting harder and harder to accept that one day I’ll have to let him go. It’s going to hurt like heck when this season ends.
I stare in a blurry, melancholy haze until I hear him move into another song. I can’t stop my smile from spreading when I hear the Billy Joel lyrics he teases me with almost daily. He doesn’t usually get far enough into the song to say what I know is coming.
I don’t want to hear him sing those words, because I know he means them. Not romantically, but I know he does. I blink back tears, feeling them threaten to drop.
He loves me just the way I am.
Broke. Undecided on a career. Incoherent without cold caffeine. Mood dependent on the last song I heard. Procrastination queen. Bossy and overconfident at work, yetavoidant, passive, and somehow obligated to someone who isn’t equipped to manage his own life—much less participate in mine.
But I can’t cut people off and start over every time life gets hard. My dad quit his job every time things didn’t go his way. If he perceived the slightest threat to his ego, we moved. Even if it meant less money, changing schools, and leaving our lives behind. Somewhere along the way, he quit his family too.
I won’t be him.
I’m better than that, and Daniel deserves someone who doesn’t jump ship when things get messy, which is exactly what I’d be doing if I…
Anyway.
We just mess with each other too much. Once my car’s fixed, I can focus on keeping our friendship within proper boundaries, but mercy. If he keeps singing to me, I can’t be held responsible for my heart.
Aunt Judy claps in delight when he finishes, and I join her. My insides are humming. Singing with him or even just listening feels so intimate, it almost feels like cheating on Nathan. That sounds insane even in my own mind, so I won’t be sharing that with the class anytime soon.
“What fun! Lucy, I hope we can do this often. You’ll just have to be part of the family now. All right, Mr. Rockstar, go check on your uncles. See if they need water or something. Lucy and I will discuss our favorite musicians. Take your time.” She dismisses him with a wave of her hand.
That wasn’t even subtle. It’s hilarious and terrifying at the same time. Music teachers do not beat around the bush.
This woman is about to grill me well-done.
Chapter 9
Under the Bridge
Daniel meets my eyes with mock horror. “I’m sorry for whatever’s about to happen, Lu. I’ll make it up to you. Text if you need me.”
Aunt Judy swats him with a throw pillow cross-stitched withLove Is a Songas he heads back to the kitchen. She tells him to do what he was told and mind his own business because I can handle myself just fine.
“All right, Miss Lucy. Who is your favorite music star? Past or present, not just talent, but stage presence and charisma.”
Well, that isn’t what I was expecting, but I can handle this question. “Bret Michaels from Poison. Without a doubt.” I grin. I know it’s weird, but it’s the truth.
“That’s an unusual choice for someone your age, but he’s a lot of fun, isn’t he? Let’s sit on the sofa.”
She moves over to a more comfortable seat and pats the cushion beside her. I sit down, once again surprised she knowswho Bret Michaels is, but she knew Mötley Crüe, so apparently her musical genius includes hair metal. Who would’ve guessed?
