Her fingers drum against the page, then smooth over the worn edges, absently tugging at a loose thread on the binding. I should look away, but I can’t stop staring at her, drinking in her soft curves like she’s the world’s most compelling prose.
Because right now, she looks like something I could ruin myself for.
When she sits back up, she hands me the notebook, her attention aimed at Toaster as he licks his paw from the middle of the deck. “I wrote some more. Part of the chorus.”
I exhale through my nose, head swimming like I’ve been drugged, and slow-blink at the offering. “Does it have a title?”
“Not yet. I’m terrible at titles.” Her face sours. “But I’m terrible at writing songs too.”
“Who told you that?”
“My inner voice. She’s kind of a dick.”
Reaching over, I take the notebook as she picks invisible lint off her tank top, shifting in place, a ball of nerves and insecurity.
My eyes dip to the page, scanning the chorus.
Do you hear the echoes?
Do they haunt you in the night?
All the words we left unspoken
Longing for the light
If I fall, will you still catch me?
If I run, will you let go?
Blah, blah, blah
I glance back up, a smile twitching. “My inner voice says it’s good. We can work with this.”
“It’s crap.” She scowls.
“It’s not crap.”
“Fine. It’s a heaping pile of shit left to rot under the sun.”
Jesus.
I scrub a hand over my face, then press forward on my forearms. “Do you honestly believe that? Because I don’t think you do.”
“If you’re implying I’m fishing for compliments, I’m not.” Annie curls into herself, wrapping her arms around her body as she rocks back and forth. Like she wants to disappear.
“Not compliments,” I say, gazing at her, wishing she’d look at me. “But you’re searching for something. For proof. For someone to believe in you.”
She stops rocking.
Slowly, her head turns, those big blue eyes locking on mine.
My smile fully forms. “I do.”
A swallow hooks in the curve of her throat. Pain, passion—it’s all the same. “You hardly know me.”
“Don’t I?” She’s said that before. Two days ago, in the front seat of my car. But time is irrelevant. You can go a lifetime knowing someone without trulyknowingthem. And then someone walks into your life and you see them clear as day. Like they were always there. “I do know you,” I tell her, tapping the notebook in my lap.
She shakes her head, eyes glazing with trapped tears. “No. You know that I like ’60s music, write random poetry, think your dog is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, and have enough relationship baggage to fill a cargo hold. That’s nothing. You don’t know—”
