“Daniel?”
If it was possible for him to say even less nothing, he did. Angie’s nerves rolled off of her in waves, striking him.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He ripped another page out of the notebook in his hands and tossed it into the conflagration. She walked around to the other side of the can, trying to catch his eye. It didn’t work. He was too focused on the crumpling, burning, disintegrating piece of paper as it was eaten alive by the orange flames.
“Burning shit,” he muttered, barely opening his mouth.
“I hope it’s not important.”
“It’s not. Not anymore.”
If he’d found Angie doing something like this, he’d laugh and make fun of her for the melodrama. Heartbreak, he used to think, was nothing more than a temporary stumbling block, a funny toast to tell at your future wedding to the love of your life.Get over it and keep looking toward the future. Something better is out there. You have to keep trying.He knew better now. Maybe there wasn’t anything better out there. Maybe everything was like this. At this moment, he couldn’t imagine a world less cold and dark as his felt.
“So…” Angie stayed a much safer distance from the fire than he did. He wanted to feel the flames dance around his face. “What is it?”
“My songs.”
“You have more songs?”
Don’t you cry, you asshole. Don’t you fucking dare. He murdered the urge by ripping another page. Watching it turn to ash.
“I wrote one every time I saw her.”
Every time he left her, music poured out of him, chords matching the tune of her pulse and lyrics she wrote with her secretive eyes. Every song every bit as beautiful as those songs he’d listened to on repeat his entire life, but more true and real because he thoughtshewas true and real.
Bullshit. All bullshit.
“I heard about what happened,” Angie said, worry tensing her face.
“Everyone did. Nan loves anI told you soalmost as much as you do.”
This was part of the reason he’d been hiding, really. The heartbreak was only part of it. The other was shame. For so long, he’d told everyone love and romance were just around the corner. That music and love could change the world. He was the romantic poet of Oxford. The last loving person in the world. And he was wrong.
“Listen…”
“I don’t think listening to you is going to make this better.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
In his bathrobe, he was standing in his garden, burning songs he’d only, a few days ago, thought could be better than the Beach Boys’ “God Only Knows.”
“Does it look like I want to talk about it?”
“Do you want to talk about something else?”
“Nope.”
Angie grasped at straws, her voice straining with effort. Daniel could see why this was important to her, why his sudden change in demeanor was troubling. He didn’t care. He wasn’t going to rip his heart again and expose himself to make her feel a little better. No one else had such consideration for him.
“Do you want a drink?”
“Alcohol dependence is a huge problem in this country and emotional drinking is where it starts,” he deadpanned.
“Great to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” Angie grumbled. “Are you ready to call her a bitch yet?”
“No. I really loved her.”Rip. Toss. Burn. “And now none of it matters.”
