The truth clicks into place.
As much as I hoped we could be a clean, controlled temporary thing.
We never will be.
We’re a wildfire, already too far gone to contain.
The old ache, the one Vanessa left in her wake, that I thought I’d carry forever, is gone. But this?—
This one is going to follow me.
I listen to her sleep for another ten minutes before I finally hang up.
Then I lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, and wonder how the hell I’m ever going to be able to let her go.
THIRTY
Boone’s coffeemug is in its usual spot when I walk into the studio. Same chipped ceramic, same faint smell of burnt espresso.
He takes a sip, choosing caffeine over a greeting. That’s nothing new.
“Good morning to you, too,” I singsong.
He grumbles something under his breath.
“You add Bailey’s to that?” I tip my head toward his mug.
“Do I need to?”
The last time he asked that was the same day he left another question echoing in my head:Is that all you’ve got?
The same day I broke down in Miles’s lap.
“Nope!” I pull my guitar from its case. “I’ve got a new song for you.”
My stomach flips. This one came to me at three in the morning when I couldn’t sleep. I haven’t slept much since Miles left for 4 Nations. Even the comfort of his bed and his lingering scent wore off after a couple of days.
I miss him something fierce. The house feels empty without him. Before, when he was away, I noticed, but now his absence fills every room.
Ten days. It’s the longest we’ve been apart since we agreed to “just until I leave.”
While he’s been gone, I’ve poured everything I have into the studio, filled half the notepad he gave me for Christmas, and made steady progress on the record. Boone deemed two of the songs “pretty good,” which, coming from him, might as well be a standing ovation. But I’m still chasing more.
This might be the one.
“Well, let’s hear it.” He settles into his chair with a grunt.
I close my eyes and start.
It’s about moments that stack up until they turn into something you can’t ignore. About brown eyes and Gatorade at a snowy gas station. About a man who folds his socks in perfect pairs and makes coffee exactly the way I like it.
I didn’t write socks into the song, obviously. Buthe’sthe thread woven throughout.
When the last chord fades, I open my eyes and brace for whatever’s about to come out of Boone’s mouth. He didn’t cut me off halfway through, which has got to be a good sign.
He takes a sip of his coffee. Sets it down.
I hold my breath as the silence stretches.
