Her words have me swallowing again, smoke and grit lodging in my throat. Nearly six long years of clogged grief.
I glance down at the weathered planks of knotty pine. “It’s not something I ever planned to do. Not alone, anyway.”
“Were you planning to start a band?”
“Not a band, no. But my sister…she wanted to start something with me someday. It didn’t pan out. And I never felt right about doing it without her.”
“What happened?” she asks, still breathless, soaking up every word.
Annie’s hair looks electric beneath the accent lights. A pop of color in a monochrome world. The blue in her eyes does everything it can to melt away my steel.
But I don’t know how to answer that. Not without letting my guard all the way down and dragging her into my army of demons. They don’t play nice. They’d eat her alive.
“It didn’t pan out,” I echo, leaving it at that. For now. “You mentioned new material?”
She blinks, the deviation catching her off guard. Slowly, she unfurls her legs until they’re draped over the edge of the chair. When she sits up, the tightness in her posture returns, coiling back into place.
Nodding, she flips open the notebook and pulls a pen from her silvery blue pouch. “I, um…had a few thoughts at work. I scribbled some lyrics on a napkin, then pieced them together the best I could when I got home. It’s not much, but it could become something?” Her lip disappears between her teeth, fingers curling around the spirals. “Or maybe not. I don’t know.”
“Show me.”
“It’s not finished yet. Not even close.” Two shimmery eyes scan the first verse. Once, twice, five times over. Her breathing becomes more labored, and her bottom lip slides out from the hook of her teeth, now puffy and quivering.
She stares blankly at the page, no longer reading.
I stare at her, reading everything.
“Or we can run through some more covers,” I pivot, sensing her uncertainty.
“Sure. Yeah, I…” The skin between her eyes pinches as she blows out a shaky breath, then tosses the notebook on the deck. Annie pops up from the chair and starts to pace. “What am I even doing? I can’t write songs.”
The honey-tinged moon bathes her in a soft glow, highlighting her misery.
Black mascara still veins her cheekbones. Her limbs tremble with trapped emotion. A hint of cigarette smoke wafts from her clothing.
I rest the guitar on my thighs and lean forward, tracking her disjointed movements. “Want to talk about it?”
“No. I don’t know.”
Her shift in energy is like a sudden stormfront. Jarring, unexpected. The pain returns tenfold.
But I’m no good at this.
A year of therapy was hardly enough to instill me with pearls of wisdom powerful enough to impact this broken, passionate, beautiful girl.
And that’s the downside of these late-night meetings—it’s impossible not to feel something when I’m with her, which is a level-ten mistake. She has a boyfriend. A serious, long-term boyfriend. The kind that leads to wedding bells and baby swaddles.
I shouldn’t be looking at her like I want to be the guy to wipe the tears off her face, hold her until the trembling ebbs, and be that soothing alternative to a stick of nicotine.
That’s fucked. Catastrophe in the making.
But she’s hurting.
And he’s not here.
Releasing a sigh, I set down the guitar and lean it against the side table. I stand from the chair. Take two steps forward.
Annie’s eyes lift, widening, welling with a new dusting of tears. “I’m fine, Chase.” She swipes at her face, erasing the evidence. “I’m okay. I’m calm.”
