And I swear, if she recovers, I’ll never tempt fate by going back on my word.
(NOW)
I waited for Daisy for hours in the living room with my guitar, recording voice notes on my phone. It’s a good thing I’m supposed to be writing love songs. Because everything I write lately is laced with emotion.
I give up waiting in the early hours of the morning. At least I know she’s safe. Duncan is guarding her, and when I blew up his phone earlier, he told me she was still at Taylor’s.
When I finally go to my room, though, I still don’t sleep. I can’t relax knowing she’s out.
I’m finally rewarded an hour later, when I hear her on the stairs giggling and talking to Archie. She sounds a little tipsy. I debate whether to check, but I wait too long, and her door closes and music turns on in her room, echoing through the wooden walls.
She’s obviously not asleep yet. And if she had too much to drink, she might need a pain reliever for the morning. Or maybe she’s sick. I get up and pace the floor of my room for a minute, debating.
“Fuck it.” I open my door, my steps making quick work of the hallway, and stop at her room. Just as I raise my hand to knock, her music turns off, and the light slipping under the door goes dark.
I drop my arm to my side.
What am I doing? I made promises. I kept my distance for years. And here I am, in the space of just a month, breaking every vow I made.
I step back from her door, my thoughts churning.
The first time I thought she died, I swore I’d leave her alone.
The second time I thought she died, leaving her alone became impossible.
It’s time I admit to myself that I can no longer keep the promises I made in the hospital that night. They are no longer necessary or valid. They haven’t been for years. She’s not the same girl she was. She’s changed, grown. In so many ways, she’s stronger and surer than I am. She can handle the spotlight that I live under.
And I’ve changed as well.
The compulsion to see her, to touch her, to tell her how much I missed her tonight—it’s visceral. It constricts my chest and makes me feel alive in a way I haven’t for years, maybe ever. It’s disorienting how strong the emotion is when we’ve only had one night together.
Maybe I’m scared, but I don’t want to rush this. I don’t want to get this wrong. And the last thing I want is for Daisy to feel like a booty call, with a knock on her door at 2:00 a.m. when she might have been out drinking. It’s the way assholes have treated her over and over in her past.
She said she wants to be chased. She pretends she’s not, but she’s a romantic. She wants to be wooed. And she deserves that. So for the time that we have together, for the next two weeks, I’m going to give it all to her.
I take another step back and turn to my room, my mind busy making plans.
“Are you okay?”At noon the next day, I peek my head into the dressing room to find Daisy surrounded by clothes of all colors,a sketchbook in her lap, her hair wild. Normally, even when her hair is a mess, it’s in artful disarray.
Today, curls stand on end like she’s been electrocuted by a live wire.
“Am I okay? Hmmm. Let me think. No. I’m not okay. Avery wants me to ‘surprise her’ with a dress. I’ve been trying all morning, but I can’t come up with anything. I’m a complete blank. She loves vintage and old-school glamour. But I can’t think of a single thing that feels fun or fresh. I know you told me to be playful about this. But I can’t. I’m freaking out.”
“Wanna play hooky?” I ask.
She groans. “Yes. Yes. I want to, so badly. But I did that last night with Taylor. I thought it might reward me with inspiration. All I got for my troubles are these dark circles under my eyes. Well, and also a minor hangover that thankfully just needed coffee and donuts to cure. But that didn’t get me any closer to solving my design crisis. So I don’t think repeating my mistake is smart. I need to sit here until inspiration strikes.”
She pulls at several of her curls, showing me why her hair looks the way it does.
“You’ll like this. I promise. I won’t keep you out late.”
“Is this another date?” she asks.
“Yes. But this time, it’s my turn to choose the location.”
“I don’t have time,” she whines mournfully. “I only have one week to create something amazing.”
But she’s wavering. I can tell.
