I drain what’s left in my glass. This time, the burn doesn’t warm me. It scorches.
“Goodnight.” I turn and walk out of the room.
Every step feels like pulling against gravity, waiting for him to call me back.
He doesn’t.
The record is on another song—something slower, sadder.
As I walk up the stairs, the pop of a bottle joins the melody.
Then the glug of whiskey.
The sharp crack of glass hitting the table.
I’m halfway up when heavy footsteps echo behind me. I pause, but don’t turn around.
“For what it’s worth—” He pauses. “I wish I were brave enough to have this. To have you. Even for just these months.”
The tears I’ve been holding back finally spill over.
I barely make it to my room before I completely fall apart.
TWENTY-ONE
Today’s sessionis definitely a gonna-key-your-car country day.
So were the last four.
I scratch another line into my notebook, the pen digging into the page harder than necessary. The words angry and sharp, and everything I’m feeling. They won’t stop coming, yet none of them feel right.
“What’d that paper do to ya?”
I glance up to find Boone watching me from what I now know is his favorite armchair. It’s hideous—lime-green faux leather, worn and stained.
“The paper? Nothing. The man I’m writing about?” I huff. “Don’t even know where to start on that one.”
Boone looks deeply uncomfortable at the mention of anything personal. I swear he only thinks in song lyrics and chord progressions. Saying he’s not a great conversationalist is putting it mildly.
“Angry’s good. Means you still care enough to be mad. It’s when you stop feeling anything that you’re in trouble.”
He sounds like he knows that from personal experience.
“Play what you have.” He takes a swig of water. “Should probably see whether this is time well spent or if you should save it for your diary.”
A laugh bursts out of me, and I swear there’s the tiniest twitch of his lips. He pulls his hat down to hide it just as quickly.
I adjust the guitar on my lap and start from the top. It’s sad. Angry. Sharp around the edges. The kind of song that fills the hollow space in my chest with something easier to feel.
When I finish, Boone’s quiet for a long moment.
“Well,” he drags the word out. “Someone really pissed you off.”
“You could say that.”
“That’s the second one this week.”
“Are you complaining?” I raise a brow. “You loved the last one. Need I remind you of Carrie Underwood’s breakout hit?”
