He laughs, shaking his head, crossing his arms on his chest, and I fight not to stare at the way his biceps bulge as he does.
I fail miserably. Mygodwho knew all this was hiding beneath those suits?
“No. Not the writing. The getting a life part.”
“Oh, uh,” I start, then bite my lip. “It’s kind of a mixed bag. I wrote one song so far, but I keep getting stuck. I was hoping going out last night might have helped, stirred up some things to write about.”
“And? Did it work?” He takes me in, assessing, and I feel naked beneath his gaze. Still, I force my breathing to remain steady. His look gives me the same light feeling as last night, and for a moment, I wonder if I’m still a bit drunk.
“Too soon to tell. But I think…” My mind travels, pulling at threads that I’ve sensed on the edge of my mind since I woke up. “I think I may have a little bit of something.”
He reads me, and for a moment, panic sweeps through me, worried if maybe he knows what I’m thinking, if maybe he knows that the little bit of something might be tied to him in the smallest way,
We remain locked in that look for long minutes before he blinks, shakes his head, and then tips it towards the front door.
“Well, then I guess we should get you home, see if you can’t get something onto paper.”
And in my hungover state, I can’t seem to assign any other name to the feeling in my chest than disappointment.
That night, I write.
I write, and I write, and I write, more inspired than ever before, the words and the chords flowing onto paper at an alarming speed as I ignore things like legibility, cohesiveness, or logic until, finally, late, late that night, I have a song.
A song so unlike anything I’ve ever written, ever produced.
A song aboutyearning.
Desire and need, and the uncertainty of it all.
Of fantasizing what it would be like to have someone all to myself, to feel their skin on mine. To toe past the line of traditional friendship into something far more satisfying. As I write, I pour all of the conflicted emotions into my words and the tension in my belly swirls and swirls, growing tighter and tighter until I’m nearly finished with the song. It’s so far from what I normally write, so blatantly sexual and frustrated, that I can almost guarantee it won’t make it to the album, but it feels good to get a song out regardless, to feel my muse once more.
And as I fall asleep, satisfied by the fact that I finally got a song out, I don’t let my mind dwell on the fact that both times I’ve been able to write a song in the last six months have been after a night with Leo Sinclaire.
EIGHTEEN
LEO
On Sunday, I head to the hardware store early, eager to miss the crowds, and head straight for the paint department, looking for paint for the guest room. I have no clue what color I’m looking for, but without thinking, I find myself navigating towards a specific section.
Blue.
Welcoming and calming.
Like the light blue shirt she wore Friday night. As soon as that thought enters my mind, I fight it, shaking my head, and reach for a yellow swatch. I don’t like that one, so I grab a green one, then a cream color, determined not to choose blue. But none of them is right.
Without meaning to, my fingers graze over the blue paint chips again.
Fine. Blue it is.
It doesn’t mean anything; it doesn’t mean I’m doing what she said. It just means that blue is a good option, which it is. I would wager that it’s probably the most popular color choice for a guest room. Maybe even just a room in general. Right?
Right.
Content with my choice and assuring myself that it has absolutely nothing to do with Willa Stone, I begin looking through the colors.
Powder blue.
Hydrangea blue.
