I whirl around and offer her a smile. “I hope it tastes as good as it smells.” I chuckle.
“I hope you didn’t go to any trouble. I eat take-out like five out of seven nights a week.” She smirks, reaching down to pull off her sneakers. She leaves them by the front door.
“I like to cook,” I say, holding out a water glass to her when she stands up.
She takes a long sip before setting it on the small dining table and heading for her room. “Just let me get out of these clothes real quick,” she calls over her shoulder.
“Sure, take your time,” I call after her. I can’t help but notice, she doesn’t close her bedroom door, and I can see the silhouette of her trim body. She pulls off her work polo shirt and rummages through the dresser drawer at the entrance to her room in only her bra. She’s breathtaking. I have to force myself to turn and walk into the kitchen so I don’t gawk at her when she removes her jeans. She probably doesn’t even realize she left her door open.You perv.
I open the oven and pull out a glass dish with chicken parm, filling two plates. Then I retrieve the Caesar salad I made earlier from the fridge. By the time I get everything on the table, Melanie meets me there. She’s changed into black leggings and an oversized pink T-shirt that falls off her left shoulder. Her hair is piled on top of her head, a few strawberry blonde curls falling out at the nape of her neck. I always loved Melanie’s neck and shoulders. As a lovesick teen, I’d stare longingly at them, imagining the soft kisses I’d plant there. All the while, she strummed her guitar, clueless to how infatuated with her I really was.
“Wow, Josh.” Melanie pulls out the chair next to mine and sits. “No one has ever made me dinner like this.” She stares in awe at the meal before her.
My jaw slackens with shock. “No one has ever cooked for you?” I can’t imagine Melanie spending the last twenty-five years alone.
Melanie pushes her full pink lips together and shakes her head. “Besides my dad? No. There’s never really been anyone serious.” She offers me a wistful smile and shrugs half-heartedly.
“I find that hard to believe,” I say, fighting the urge to reach for her.
Melanie lets out a dry laugh. “Believe it.” She clears her throat. “I was going to stop and get us some wine but then I realized I haven’t seen you drinking.” She furrows her brow at me. “Are you sober?” Melanie’s voice is gentle as she places her warm hand on my forearm.
I stifle a cough and nod. “It’s only been about a year but yeah.” What I don’t add is, I know exactly how long it’s been.
Melanie’s expression softens, but there’s no pity in it, only understanding. “That couldn’t have been easy. I get it, though. More than you think.”
I shake my head and smile at her, wanting desperately to lighten the mood. “It’s not that serious. I just don’t like the person I turn into when I’m under the influence, and it makes me feel like garbage, so I decided to cut it out.” I pause and seriously debate telling her the whole story. Then I decide against it—it would ruin me for her. “Apparently, tosome people,that makes me less fun.”
“I’ll always think you’re fun,” Melanie says, pulling her hand back. She picks up her fork and meets my eyes, her own baby blues a pool of emotion. “This really looks delicious.” She doesn’t drop her gaze, and I wonder if she feels what I feel—the desperate longing for the past, the way we clung to each other without a care in the world. The plans we made that didn’t pan out.
My cheeks heat and I’m sure they’re pink—thankfully, my three-day-old beard hides it. “Well, thanks.” I grin.
We spend a few moments eating in silence, other than the cute, satisfied noises escaping Melanie that I imagine her making in the bedroom. Heat pricks the back of my neck every time she looks my way. I want her and I can’t have her—it will lead nowhere good. The best-case scenario here is for the two of us to make some music, reminisce, and celebrate Cara. If I get some tracks for the album out of it, that’s even better.
“So, why are you really back here, Josh?” Melanie’s question jars me out of my thoughts.
I laugh, wiping my mouth with a paper napkin. “What do you mean? I told you, I need inspiration for my album.”
Melanie leans back in her chair and takes me in for a moment before speaking. “You’re a country music star… you could have gone anywhere else to find inspiration.” It’s a statement not a question.
“I know.” I nod and take a sip of water, deflecting further. “I wanted to come home.” I look away for a moment, but she doesn’t take her eyes off me. I stifle a cough. There’s more to it than I’ve let on, but I’m not ready to share what’s on my heart.
“Okay,” she finally says, clearly choosing not to press me further. “Well, I’m glad you’re back.”
I give her a tight smile. “Me too. Shall we make some music?”
* * *
We settleinthe cramped living room with our guitars, Melanie in the armchair and me on the couch. I’ve noticed she’s upgraded hers from her high school guitar to a rose gold Ibanez acoustic electric. I’ve set my music books out on the table as well as some blank staff paper and my phone with wireless microphones to record.
Melanie is quiet as she picks up her guitar, balancing it on her knee. She appears to be waiting for me.
“Do you want to play some covers first to warm up?” I ask, picking up my own guitar that I left leaning against the end table.
Melanie tucks a stray curl that has fallen out of her bun behind her ear and meets my gaze. “Sure,” she says, and she begins strumming the chords to my biggest hit, “Without You.”
I am barely breathing as I lean closer to her, desperate to close the distance between us. If she expects me to pick up my guitar and join in, she doesn’t say so. She continues strumming the intro, and then her melodic voice fills the room. I swallow hard, feeling my throat constrict. Twenty-five years have passed and still the sound of her voice sends goose bumps up my arms. It is both a balm and a blade, cutting clear through the years that had stretched between us. Maybe somewhere beneath her composure, she also feels the spark that never really faded. My fingers instinctually tighten around the neck of my guitar, aching to play the next chord—but I don’t. I’m too captivated by her, playing my melody, singing my words. I hadn’t realized how much I missed her until now. My chest aches with the bittersweet twist of regret and, at the same time, hope for the future.
Melanie finishes playing and looks at me, smiling. “Surprise,” she says with a slight shrug.
