She looks at me.
A few steady beats pass, and I don’t know how to unravel that look. What it means, what it says. We’ve become closer over the last few weeks. While I never cross any lines, never let my thoughts drift too far, sometimes I wonder if she does.
Her lips part like she might say something, but she only exhales a slow, quiet breath that barely stirs the air between us.
I should look away, put space between us. But I don’t.
Finally, she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, blinking hard likeshe’s dislodging something. “Here,” she murmurs, reaching for the guitar. “If you want to warm up.”
I take it, grateful for the out. Because no matter how close we may become, no matter how many nights we spend lost in music, there are lines that can’t be blurred.
It’s for the best; I prefer hard lines and sharp edges.
The fallout always hides inside the blur.
My fingers settle on the strings, my thumb ring glinting off a rope of bulb lights draped around the deck. The scent of summer wraps around me—rain-soaked mud, damp wood, and wild honeysuckle. I’m not sure if the latter belongs to nature or the shampoo in her hair.
“Sing an oldie for me.”
I lift my chin and find Annie staring at me again. “Yeah?”
“I need something cheery and familiar. It’s been a day.” She pulls her legs up crisscross-applesauce style and settles back in the seat. “If you don’t mind?”
Sixties tunes aren’t exactly my jam, but I know a few. One in particular.
Sometimes that song bleeds into my nightmares, drowning out the ghostly howls of my mother’s screams.
I locate a pick on the little garden table between us and strum a few chords along the strings.
G-C-D minor.
Annie’s eyes brighten with recognition.
I clear my throat. Tear my gaze away from hers before I lock up.
Then my voice pours out like a raspy, controlled lullaby as I sing the first verse to “I Only Want To Be With You” by Dusty Springfield.
I move into the chorus. Forget some of the lyrics to the second verse and shift into the bridge.
Chorus again.
Outro.
The last note hangs on, clinging to the midnight air like sticky adhesive. When my focus floats back to Annie, I blink through the haze, watching her watch me. She’s curled up in a ball on the wicker chair, legs tucked to her chest, fresh tears coating her eyes.
Not pain this time. Just passion.
She looks spellbound.
The sentiment has me fidgeting as my left knee bounces, skin itches, hairline sweats. She shouldn’t be looking at me like that.
Too fucking dangerous.
“God, you’re so good,” she breathes out, a choked-up whisper. “I can’t believe you just started singing in front of people.”
“Yeah.” I swallow. “Singing is…vulnerable.”
“It is, but it’s also so raw. Like tearing your chest wide open and hoping someone hears what’s inside.”
