But my pulse soars when I just see softness in her expression. Soft eyes. Soft smile.
A soft place to land, then?
Before the other night when I unearthed my guitar, I hadn’t cried in front of anyone since before Mom and Dad’s funeral. I shut off that spigot the day we put my parents in the ground, and I never turned it back on. I had to.
As the baby of our family, I always tried to be the “easy” kid—the one who didn’t cause any trouble or put anyone out. Going with the flow felt like second nature with four older brothers in the house. Someone always needed something, and I could tell how overwhelmed my parents were by my brothers’ constant demands. I didn’t want to add more to the pile.
Makes sense that I wanted to keep being easy after the accident. Cash took over as head of the family, and I could tell he was overwhelmed too. What nineteen-year-old wouldn’t be flattened by suddenly becoming the guardian of his rowdy younger siblings?
So I just kinda kept to myself. Didn’t burden anyone with my grief or my loneliness. I think that’s why I got so close to Colt over the years; with him, I never felt the pressure to perform the easy role.
Now I see how playing that role has left me stunted. Unhappy. The kind of life I thought I’d live, the love I thought I’d find—I’m never gonna get those things, am I, if I don’t let anyone in?
If I’m not allowed to be difficult and inconvenient and, well, a whole human being.
Billie sure as hell doesn’t seem to mind when I’m being difficult.
A tear slips. My stomach lurches. But before I can wipe it away and erase all evidence of my grief, Billie is doing it for me.
She gently arcs the pad of her thumb over my cheek, sending a shock wave of something sharp and real and…strong through me.
I feel like I’m bleeding on the inside, but instead of panicking, I keep playing.
I’mfeeling. Letting oxygen into spaces that have been airless for way too long.
And you know what? Billie doesn’t run, so neither do I.
Another tear slips. Another swipe of her thumb. This time my body heats at her touch. She leans into me, leans her head lightly on my shoulder, and now Iamdrowning.
Not in grief, but in desire.
Interesting.Makes me wonder if being able to lean into my feelings, to let my guard down when it comes to my grief, is also allowing me to recognize what I actually feel for Billie. The other side of the coin thing?
The song ends. Quiet descends on us in a fire-scented rush, my body prickling with the awareness that Billie hasn’t moved.
I’m practically choking on the need to set down this guitar and get Billie on her back and put my face between her legs.
She’d be so soft there too. I can taste her already, hot and sweet. She’d come on my mouth quick and hard, and then I’d come inside her.
“That was beautiful.” Her voice is quiet. “You’re beautiful.”
I blink, drawing a deep breath through my nose. “I know. Cowboy plus guitar plus cowboy tears equals hotness?—”
“You really need to stop calling yourself hot.”
I nudge her with my elbow. “Somebody has to!”
“Let it be me, then.”
“Fine.”
“Fine!”
Her body shakes with laughter against my own, and it hits me that I’ve never cried and laughed at the same time.
It makes my chest feel sore in the best way. Like I’ve just finished a punishing day out in the cold, and now I get to come inside. Get warm. Maybe come insidethatway too.
Would Billie let me? But what if that got us into trouble? Condoms are a way of life for me. My parents drilled into us that safe sex is good sex.
