“And you call me the crazy one,” I mutter.
“I called you spirited, different, and unpredictable. Not crazy.” A car honks behind us. “Please sing.”
I wring my hands nervously.
Another loud honk, and then car tires squeal as the car goes around us. Ten has stopped in the middle of the road and is making no move to start driving again.
He watches my hands. “It’s just me, Angie. Just me. Sing for me.”
A marriage proposal would’ve rendered me less panicky.
Ten must sense I won’t do it, because he finally bears down on the gas pedal. We don’t talk the rest of the way home.
“Thank you for the ride.”
He keeps his gaze leveled on the white columns of my house, tight-lipped, tight-jawed.
I sigh. “I don’t even sing in front of Rae, Ten.”
He side-eyes me, as though he doesn’t believe me.
“I clam up when I feel someone watching me. Which I know is weird considering I want to be a singer, but… yeah”—I gulp—“stage fright is real.”
“All great artists have stage fright, or so Dad tells me,” Ten says. “Hehangs out with so many of them. If you don’t have stage fright, then you’re apparently not as good as you think.”
My ego laps that right up.
“You have a really nice voice, by the way.”
Hopefully, the darkness camouflages my budding blush. “I bet you say that to all the girls,” I joke, because what else am I supposed to do? Thank him? Wouldn’t that sound smug?
The strain on his face finally breaks. “I usually comment on their rack.”
I smirk because Ten is so not the type of guy to do that. “Didn’t think you had anything in common with Brad.”
“We’re almost the same person.”
I shake my head and grin at him as I open the door and get out.
He powers down his window. “Promise you’ll sing for me someday?”
Someday.There’s no expiration date to that word. I want to write a song to that word. Already lyrics are jostling in my mind.
I nod, and my hair springs out from behind my ears.
He shoots me a smile that for once isn’t crooked or brazen, just heartbreakingly sweet.
39
Blinding Dreams
I wake up on Sunday to a message from Lynn to stop by her place. As I throw on some clothes, I wonder if she wants to see me because she’s thought of some way to make my song better.
After grabbing a banana and scarfing it down, I bike over to my coaches’ house. I find them in the backyard, tending to their lawn and hydrangea bushes.
“Hey. You wanted to see me?” I ask.
Lynn rises from her crouch, rubbing her dirt-stained palms against her jeans. “I did.”
