Or maybe all I can see is Shawn.
Even in college, no guy ever made me feel like Shawn made me feel, even if it was just for one hour on one night at one party six years ago. No one else can compete with him—I just never fully realized it until I was sitting on that couch with him after band practice, watching him play that vintage Fender and remembering what it felt like to have my heart do that thing in my chest.
That dancing, twirling, fluttering fucking thing. That thing straight out of books and Lifetime movies.
“There’s no one like him, Kale.”
I don’t even know what it is about him. It’s the intense way he stared down at his guitar when he was playing, the soft way he looked at me when I made him smile. It’s like there’s an even more beautiful person beneath his beautiful shell, and all I want to do is be with that person. I want to be the only girl he smiles at like that.
Kale sighs, his chest deflating and the worry lines around his mouth deepening. “You should hate him.”
“Forever?”
“At least until you remind him what he did.”
I never can.
“He needs to know, Kit.”
He never does.
“And you deserve to hear an apology.”
I never will, and that night, when I’m in my own bed under heavy covers, I don’t ask for one. Instead, I text Shawn, tell him I’m home, and answer my phone when it rings two seconds later.
Actually, I answer it when it rings ten seconds later, because it takes me that long to stop smiling around the lip I’m biting and feeling like I’ll start giggling as soon as I hear his voice.
“Hello?”
“You’re home now?”
Three words, and that giggly smile is back on my face. I pull the phone away until I can get a grip on myself, and then I answer, “Yeah, I’m in bed.”
“Oh . . . ”
Shit . . . did that translate to, I don’t want you to come over? Because that is definitely not what I meant. What I meant was, Yes! I’m home! Come over! Stay a while! We can do . . . stuff!
God. It’s like I’ve never talked to a freaking boy before.
“So what happened at your parents’?” Shawn asks, interrupting my spastic inner monologue.
I make a noise and answer, “You don’t want to hear about it. Trust me.”
“If I didn’t want to hear about it, I wouldn’t ask.”
Soft heat radiates beneath my cheeks, soaking into the fingertips I press against them. “What if I just don’t want to talk about it?”
“Then can I play you something?”
I slide my fingertips away when that soft heat turns to fire. “On your guitar?”
“No, on my harmonica.”
I’m way too nervous to form a smart-ass reply to his tease. “Over the phone?”
“Yeah. I want to come over tomorrow, too, if that’s cool with you, but I’ve been waiting all day for you to listen to this song I’ve been working on.”
That smile I gave to the darkness earlier comes back full force, and I swallow another stupid giggle. “Sure. Play away.”
And then, he does. He plays his guitar just for me, and I close my eyes and let myself dream.
I dream that the song is mine, that the night is mine, that Shawn is mine.
“So what do you think?” he asks when he’s finished. “Do you like it?”
And with that dreamy smile still on my face and his song still in my heart, I answer him.
“No,” I say. “I love it.”
Chapter Six
OVER THE NEXT couple of weeks, my mornings are usually filled with Starbucks and Leti, and my afternoons are usually filled with practices or jam sessions, playing music or writing music. Most of the songs I learned that day in Shawn’s apartment end up getting changed anyway—the old guitarist’s parts getting replaced with new ones I write myself. The guys love the fresh flavor I add to their sound, and I love that they love it. We grow together flawlessly, and it’s all easy. Mike always has my back, Adam always makes me laugh, Joel always entertains my corny jokes, and Shawn . . .
Shawn is the only part that’s not easy.
Time alone with him is tough. I try to keep it professional; he has no idea that I have to try so hard, and I always feel like I’m going through withdrawal of him as soon as he leaves my place. Texting him and hearing my phone ding a response becomes an addiction, one that tugs at the strings of my heart, pulling it closer and closer to a place I swore I’d never go again.
Sometimes we meet up at his place. Sometimes the whole band practices at Mike’s. But it’s the times when it’s just Shawn and me sitting on the roof outside my bedroom window that I look forward to the most.