I finished up and trotted down the stairs, pausing at the hall closet, which was mid-organization. Meaning it was currently a disaster but on the way to completion. This was my favorite part. Cleaning up the mess I'd made and proving to myself it wasn't for nothing.
No Sloan around, but dang, I had a system for these things—and I knew the system—but with no idea of what the system entailed, Sloan must've thought I was bonkers.
In our last Salt and Pepper Negotiations, I assured him I would finish all organizational projects within twenty-four hours—barring any illness, natural disasters, or wildlife.
A Salt and Pepper Negotiation was what we called it when one of us needed to cover something important. That way, we both knew what was up and there was no guessing involved for either of us.
"Sloan?" I called his name, ready to apologize for the gigantic mess of the hall closet.
No reply, but a note taped to the coffee maker caught my eye:
Out of coffee.
Walked to town to grab a cup.
Will bring yours back.
- S
I laughed lightly. At nothing. I laughed at nothing and everything that had happened since we got margaritas in Vegas.
Colorado was absolutely not Vegas, though. This wasn't the desert, and there were no flashing lights or pretend lakes.
Everything here was the real deal. I'd found that refreshing.
Mountain air was interesting, because with the fog that settled, it was wet and faded the edges of the landscape, but somehow, things still felt crisp. Awake and alive and happy.
I texted a jaunty good morning to my friends, asking for a check in. I got one thumbs up and one goose gif in reply.
Grabbing the guitar I'd had shipped in from Los Angeles, I pulled the strap over my shoulder and checked to ensure it was tuned. I hadn't turned on my camera to record.
I always posted covers of already popular songs. But since I was alone, and the acoustics in this room were so damn good, I decided on the fly to try out one of my originals. Letting my hair spill over my shoulder, I worked on the melody that had been in my head since I came up with the lyrics.
Once I could nail the bridge, the rest of the song fell into place.
I don't love you, but I'm yours.
You don't need me, but you're mine.
When I feel you, I know the truth.
In life, it's those things that aren't real
Those things that become how I feel.
I wanted the song to be raw and honest, but somehow, whenever I put pen to paper, it always felt like the chords weren't quite right.
That's why I stuck with the tried-and-true songs others wrote—those always worked.
But by myself in the big room, the usual worry about what others would think of my words fell away like a heavy coat sliding from my shoulders. I closed my eyes, lost in my music, and let the emotion pour.
I closed my eyes, the music flowed, and it was only me and the song. When I strummed the last chord, and soft applause broke the silence, I opened my eyes to find Sloan there, his expression one of pride.
"You wrote that?" Sloan's voice was barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile moment we found ourselves in.
"Uh-huh. I've been…uh…working on trying something new," I said, hastily putting my guitar to the side. "Yay, coffee!"
He handed it over, letting his fingertips brush mine. We'd both discovered we enjoyed little touches, so we wove that into the fabric of our agreement.
