“What are you looking for?” Mom asks, frowning.
“Your muzzle,” Dad deadpans, and I can’t help my chuckle.
“I think I saw it next to my How to Surgically Remove Your Husband’s Testicles While He Sleeps for Dummies handbook.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Have I told you lately what a pain in the ass you are?”
“Daily,” she lifts a brow, letting Dad know she’s not changing anytime soon—or ever. Their tit-for-tat has me thinking again about the blue-eyed beauty I dropped off only hours ago. We’ve been going back and forth similarly the last two days, and I can’t help the widening of my grin because of it.
“What’s that?” Mom asks.
I frown. “What’s what?”
She gives me a keen stare. “You haven’t smiled like that since you got a digital valentine from Aurora Long in the fourth grade.”
“That’s bullshit, and how would you know?”
“I know things…and I know that smile.”
“Stella,” Dad sighs. “Lay off. He’s finally sleeping at home again.”
“Seriously, Mom,” I chime in, taking Dad’s out. “I’m going to go grab that plate.”
“Evading,” she pipes, turning to tail me as I take the stairs two at a time.
“I’m moving out,” I threaten again, knowing it’s low but will be enough to throw her off my scent for now. Truth is, I’m not sure what’s happening with the woman who’s invading my life—and now my head.
I hear Mom’s yelp from the foot of the stairs as Dad hollers from below, mirth in his voice. “Run for your life, son! I’ll take this one for the team.”
“You jackass—” Mom’s protest is cut short, and I don’t have to look back to know Dad is shutting her up in a way I don’t want to witness. Grinning, I click off the light at the top of the stairs and hear their collective protests muddled as I shut them in. Swiping my dinner off the counter, I jog up the stairs to my bedroom for some privacy. I’ve rarely slept at home in the last few years, my obsession taking precedence and consuming me to the point I almost lost sight of any sort of outside life.
Standing under the steaming shower spray a short time later, I catch myself immersed in thoughts of deep blue eyes, glossy lips, and strawberry-kissed curly hair. Thick suds gathered in my idle hands, my body reacts to the images stirring me up, and I go with it, releasing some of the tension before I towel off and toss on some sweats.
It’s when I hit the sheets that I find myself becoming more thankful for the invasion and more determined to seek solace in her for the time we have left.
I might only have a few days remaining to find some reprieve in the distraction who crash-landed on my doorstep, but it’s enough for now.
I wake hours later in the exact position I fell asleep in, having slept better than I have in weeks.
Bad Day
Fuel
Natalie
I didn’t sleep.
As much as I tried to blame it on the jet lag, I found myself warring with Easton’s admissions and the fact that he seems to know exactly who he is, the questions he posed to me a lot harder for me to answer than I let on.
Last night, as I stared at the low-lit flames burning in the fireplace tucked in the corner of my hotel room, I listened to the music from his playlist and physically felt the weight of the lyrics wrapped inside the expertly created rhythm, amplifying their meaning.
For the first time, I became fully aware of their capabilities as Easton’s prodding questions circled in my head.
As I mulled those questions over for deeper, more meaningful responses, I replayed every song on the rapidly growing soundtrack I’ve compiled in our short time together. I examined the lyrics, wondering which parts of them he personally identifies with before questioning which parts I, myself, could relate to.
The irony that though none of the lyrics were lost on me, I hadn’t really experienced much to coincide with what they entail—which began to eat at me the more I listened.
Words have always been what light me on fire. The stories they create fuel me, and the more I tuned into each song, I realized the art of fusing a story, message, or layered emotions in fewer words to paint a picture is fascinating. Composing lyrics with the right notes is an art form widely recognized and celebrated by billions of people. Though aware of it, I’d spent most of my life idolizing the noteless side of composition.
Which led to an even deeper question—why hadn’t I ever taken notice before?