“You sayin’ your boyfriend cheated on you?”
“No,” I huff. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Boone nods, slowly. “All right.”
How does he manage to put so much disbelief behind one word?
The silence stretches. I should let it go. Should get back to work. Instead, I hear myself ask: “What about you?” I tip my head at his left hand resting on his knee. “Why haven’t I met your wife? Husband?”
His eyes flick to the wedding band, then look past me. “Wife.”
I don’t know what gives me the nerve. Maybe it’s because I’ve been tiptoeing around Miles for days. Maybe I’m desperate for actual human interaction. Maybe I’m hoping our improved working relationship might develop into something close to friendship. Whatever it is, I ask, “Does she work out of town? Where is she?”
His plastic water bottle crinkles under his grip. Then again. Like he’s testing how much pressure it can take before it cracks.
So much time passes, I don’t think he’s going to answer. His gaze stays fixed somewhere past my left shoulder, vacant. He doesn’t move a muscle. “Dead.”
The single word takes all the air out of the room.
“Oh, God.” I place my guitar on the couch cushion next to me and lean forward, elbows braced on my knees. “I’m so sorry.”
He shakes his head and blinks back at me.
I don’t know what to say. There’s nothingtosay that won’t sound empty.
“No bother.” He pushes to stand. “Let’s pick up where we left off yesterday with the first heartache song.”
He returns to the boards, tapping a few keys, and pulls up the track we’ve been working on.
“Boone—”
“Drop it, Summer.” He shoots me a look over his shoulder. “I said it’s fine.”
I swallow, then nod.
It’s hard not to think about what it does to someone, losing the person their whole life is built around. Now that I know more about Boone’s past, his attitude makes sense. His gruffness is camouflage for his grief.
I can’t help thinking how I’d feel in his shoes. What losing your other half does to a person. What losing Miles?—
No.
We’re not together. We never were. We won’t ever be. He’s made that clear.
But I’ve been drifting through these days like something’s been taken from me, anyway. I’m grieving something that never even got to exist.
The silence in the room stretches. Boone adjusts levels on the board that don’t need adjusting. I pretend to review lyrics I’ve already memorized.
“Take five,” Boone offers, not unkindly. “Get some air. We’ll tackle the bridge when you get back.”
I think the request is more for his benefit than mine, so I grab my coat from the hook by the door.
Outside, the January air—the last day of it—bites through my layers. I pull out my phone more out of habit than hope.
No new messages.
It’s been a day since Miles left on the road trip. Part of me was relieved when he went. Three days of carefully maneuvering around each other after that night were more than enough.
I’ve sent him good luck texts before games—because I can’t have the loss of a whole team on my shoulders. That’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it. He’s responded with his usual check-ins, too.Grace good? House okay? Recording going well?
