I paused, my heart pounding loud enough for him to hear. “Stay with me?”
He froze. My stomach dropped like I was falling from three stories up. I watched his Adam’s apple take a steady dip as he swallowed. His eyes traveled down my body and up again before he said, “Okay.”
I climbed into his full-size bed, leaving enough space for him to lie beside me. The mattress dipped as he climbed in. He was still at first, like he wasn’t sure what I needed or how long my courage would last. I wasn’t sure either.
We were quiet—not awkwardly, but cautiously. Unsure what was safe to say, if anything at all.
Finally, I broke the silence. “Smokey Robinson,” I said, turning my head toward him. “Favorite song of the three.”
He smiled, and it was beautiful and sad all at once. He readjusted and placed his arms behind his head before he said, “You Really Got a Hold on Me.”
My heart sank deep into my soul, and I swallowed hard. It wasn’t a deep cut. It was a classic, and I knew the song well. It wasn’t solo Smokey Robinson; it was his band, The Miracles. It was a song that sounded sweet but was actually a cry of love and frustration—about a person’s power over you, whether you liked it or not.
“That’s cheating,” I said, grinning the heaviness away. “That’s not even on a Smokey Robinson album.”
He smiled, that crooked smile I loved so much. “Fine.” He looked to the ceiling, thinking of a new answer, and I studied his perfect profile. The straight bridge of his nose. The dip before his lips. His tongue peeked out to wet them, and I felt my core tighten.
“Just to See Her,” he said, his eyes locking back with mine, and I visibly released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. This song—thissong—was it. It was everything I needed him to say.
“Your turn,” he said, but I needed a minute.
I needed to sit in that space as I ran through Smokey’s lyrics in my head.
Doesn’t she know it… I tried hard not to show it… Can’t I make her realize that she really needs me again… I want to see her… just to see her… Hold her, see her just to touch her… If I could only see her again…
I blinked slowly, tired and buzzed, full of every emotion I couldn’t name. Of memories I hadn’t meant to revisit. Of a love I was still trying to hide deep in the corners of my heart.
“Tracks of My Tears,” I finally whispered, and when I looked at him, he was already watching me—like he knew. Like he’d guessed before, I said a word.
He nodded once, solemn and soft. “Yeah,” he said. “That one makes sense.”
He didn’t correct me like I corrected him for picking a Miracles song. He just accepted how fitting it was and let it go, like he did everything else.
For a second, I hated that it fit so well. Because that song wasn’t about joy. It was about pretending. About wearing a smile so no one sees the ache behind it. I hated how much that was the story of us.
He reached for my hand, resting his fingers lightly over mine, like even now he wasn’t sure he was allowed. But he didn’t let go. And neither did I.
We didn’t say anything else. We didn’t have to.
I closed my eyes and didn’t open them again, afraid of what I’d find in his. Afraid to see the ache. The apology. The love we weren’t supposed to feel that was written all over them. It was quiet, but for once, it wasn’t lonely, and that night, it would be enough.
I guess that’s how love is sometimes. Not loud or wild or screaming to be heard. Sometimes it’s just…quiet. A whisper in the dark. A kiss on the forehead after you’ve fallen asleep. A favorite song that still plays long after the record has stopped spinning.
If you’re not careful, you might miss it. Might let it slip right through your fingers and call italmost, or call itnothing. But deep down, where your heart meets your soul, you’ll know it was everything—
You just let it go.
Track 7
“Sunday Morning”
-Earth, Wind & Fire, 1993
I WOKE UP the next morning alone in E’s bed. I wasn’t necessarily surprised by his absence, but I was nervous to leave his room without an escort. Unfortunately, I couldn’t wait long—I had to pee, and the only bathroom I knew of was down the hall and to the right, past the other bedrooms.
I made it to the bathroom without running into anyone, but when I exited and heard the clanging of pots and pans in the kitchen, it felt rude to hide away.
I made my way over, and sure enough, there was E’s mom, cooking Sunday morning breakfast with the brightest smile I’d ever seen. She greeted me like she had known me forever, when she hadn’t met me at all. It was the warmest welcome I’d ever experienced as an unwelcome guest—and I had extensive experience being an unwelcome guest, in my own home.
