“She sounds kind of mean,” Riley says. And then she grimaces, like she’s afraid that saying that makeshermean.
If only she knew that I’ve called my ex-wife plenty of worse things since the divorce. But I’d rather her not find out how bitter that woman made me. It’s not a good look.
“She was a lot of things,” I settle on saying. “Not that it matters anymore. And I don’t want to bother you with my petty drama. I told you mylife was boring. While you were out touring the world, I was stuck in an apartment in Chicago arguing over curtains.”
Taking a step closer, Riley’s gaze drifts over my shoulder toward the windows. When she looks at me again, she says, “I know you mean that as a bad thing, and I’m sorry that your ex didn’t treat you the way you deserve to be treated. But to me, that almost sounds nice.”
“How the heck does that sound nice?”
She glances down, toying with the bottom of her shirt again. “Not the being treated badly, obviously. But yeah, I’ve spent half my life touring. So what you’re talking about sounds like stability to me. Like you had a relationship that was serious enough to involve decorating together. I’ve had plenty of boyfriends, but I’ve never had that. I think I’d love the chance to argue over curtains.”
“Oh,” I say dumbly. Because she’s thrown me for a loop with this.
I suppose I understand what she means, though. And I guess it is kind of sad that she’s never had something like that.
“Well, you’re young,” I tell her. “You still have so much time to settle down and be boring like the rest of us.” But for her sake, I hope when she finds that relationship, the arguments stop at curtains, and they don’t escalate into arguing over who slept with whom behind the other person’s back.
She doesn’t say anything else, turning her gaze to my vinyl collection. Which reminds me what we’re doing in here, so I encourage her to have a look and pick out whatever she wants to hear.
When she crosses over to the shelves and starts scanning the album titles, I worry she won’t be able to find anything she likes. Although my music taste is pretty diverse, she is younger than me, and a lot of my favorite artists were making music before even I was born. There’s plenty of newer stuff too, but it’s more on the indie folk and alternative spectrum. Whereas, from what I know of Riley’s music, she sings the newer style of country that borders on pop, and those are probably two of the least represented genres on my shelves.
By now, though, I should have learned not to make assumptions about this woman. Because she clearly listens to a variety of music outside of her own genre. Within two minutes, she’s gotten excited over at least five different albums.
Then she says, “Ooh, Fleetwood Mac, definitely!”
I go over to her as she carefully pulls her selection off the shelf, and I take it from her hands, seeing that she pickedRumorsinstead of the band’s earlier self-titled album. I unintentionally catch a whiff of her sweet strawberry scent and hastily step back before I do anything stupid.
“This is an excellent choice,” I tell her.
“I wish you had the remastered one with ‘Silver Springs’ on it.”
“Sorry my collection’s not large enough to satisfy you,” I quip as I get the vinyl set up on the record player.
“Oh no, it’s amazing,” she says earnestly. “I’m definitely satisfied.”
Those three words certainly shouldn’t sound dirty. Yet hearing them come out of her mouth messes up my brain for a moment.
While the music begins playing, we sit down on opposite ends of the couch. She looks uncomfortable, sitting up straight, and I hope it’s not because of what she found here earlier. But when I pull my feet up onto the couch, leaning my legs against the arm of it, her posture relaxes too. She pulls her legs up sideways, tucking her feet underneath herself.
“You’re right, though,” I say, smiling at her. “‘Silver Springs’ is a great song.”
“It’s my favorite song,” she replies. “I’m sure I say that about a lot of songs, but truly, if you forced me to pick only one, that’s what I’d pick. I’ll never get over the lore of it. Stevie Nicks writing it about Lindsey Buckingham after they broke up, and then they still had to be in the band together. The live performance where they sing it to each other with that intense eye contact that made everybodyfeelhow heartbroken they both were.”
She frowns, like maybe she thinks she’s talking too much. Then, toyingwith the hem of her shorts, she adds, “I’d give anything to write a song with that kind of power.”
“I’d say your songs are pretty powerful if millions of people are listening to you.”
She shrugs this off. “Yeah. I’m proud of what I’ve done with my music. But I doubt anyone will remember my songs fifty years from now. I don’t know if I’ll ever leave that same kind of legacy.”
“You never know.” I adjust my position so I can face her easier, propping my back against the arm of the couch with my feet on the middle cushion. “You’ve got time. You’ve still got a long career ahead of you.”
“If I’m lucky,” she says, one corner of her mouth dipping down into a half-frown, as if maybe she’s doubting her longevity in the music industry.
I hope sheisthat lucky, but I don’t say anything more as she closes her eyes and starts humming along to the second song. I take the opportunity to simply watch her, to fully take her in without worrying she’ll see my attraction to her painted across my face.
Her lashes are long, and I suspect she’s wearing mascara, but it seems like that’s the only makeup she’s used. And her natural beauty is enough to draw me in.
I have to fight the pull I feel toward her. The desire to touch and caress, to kiss her pink lips that are now silently forming the words to the song. I want to kiss the lyrics right from her mouth.
