I can play this game. There are a few things I’d really like to know. “You said you write lyrics?”
“Yep, I’ve been writing since I was fifteen. I have an entire bookcase full of notebooks filled with scribbled lyrics and ideas for songs. It’s just something I really love to do. A lot of them are personal, so those I won’t show anyone. And only the best songs make the cut to become more than just an acoustic diddy. Anything else?”
“What do you write about?”
“Anything and everything—from songs about the homeless guy I met on the corner, to the pain of the loss of a loved one, to the spark of new love and new beginnings. I’ve also written a few about a werechicken named Joe who works at KFC, but those aren’t for the public eye,” he says with a laugh and just like that, I’m grinning, softening once again.
“You have a band?”
“Sort of, yeah. I mean, it doesn’t even have a name yet, but we have a handful of songs done for gigs and stuff once we are more official.”
I look up at him. “We?”
“Me and Jake—he’s the guy who, uh, asked you out for me.” He’s sheepish, hunched shoulders and a silly little smile and those eyes are sparkling. “I guess I have to thank him for that.”
“I guess you should,” I agree. “He seems a little prickly.” For lack of a better word. I mean, I’ve nicknamed him Beartrap, for God’s sake. That boy could probably demolish a village just by growling at it—and immediately I feel bad, because who am I to judge? I’m not him and he’s not me.
“He can be, but he’s cool. He’s been my best friend since grade school and he’s been through some tough shit, but he’s a good guy and once you’re around him long enough, you’ll realize that he’s not just another bastard. He has his reasons. He’s the one who inspired me to follow my love of music.”
“What about your family?”
He shrugs. “They don’t get it. To them, music is just noise. My father fought me tooth and nail about starting a band—a giant waste of time in his opinion—and in the end I agreed to go to law school to get him off my back. I don’t regret it.”
He doesn’t strike me as the lawyerly type. At all. “Law?”
“Pop’s a bigwig prosecuting attorney, wants me to follow in the family business, blah-de-blah-blah. So alas, here I am. Studying law.” He says it with such nonchalance, but I know better.
“You don’t like it.” That’s not a question.
He lets out a short laugh. “Not really, but it’ll give me a career with a steady flow of income so I can afford my ever-growing musician hobby.” He grins then. “Because short of breaking my fingers, I’ll never stop making music—and even then, I’d just learn to play guitar with my feet. It’s like a virus, threaded through my DNA, and I can’t ignore that call. What about you?”
I glance at him, a little confused, so he plays a little air guitar to demonstrate. Ah. “Music is my getaway, a reprieve from real life. I can plug in my headphones and just…get lost. It’s that simple.”
“But you don’t play?”
“Sometimes, but I don’t really have the time to practice. When I’m not studying, two jobs really eat up my free time.”
“What’s your other job? You know, for stalker purposes.” He flashes another one-hundred-watt-smile, but this time I don’t smile back because I can feel myself beginning to lose control. I can feel the conversation sliding down the wrong path, headed straight for the abyss that is my life, like the monster deep inside of me is rearing its ugly head.
I try to shrug him off, but when he asks again, I huff out a sigh. “I’m a librarian. I shelve dog-eared books and show idiots how to get on the internet. Nothing special, but I need the money. Not everyone is lucky enough to have a college fund.”
The minute the words leave my mouth, sharp and bitter, I regret them and wish I could suck them back in. My chest squeezing, painfully tight, I take a step, backing away from him, and try to breathe. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to sound so—”
“Bitchy?” He laughs. “It’s okay.”
But it’s not okay. He doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve my wrath, and sometimes that’s all I am. I wrap both arms around myself to fend off the chill crawling up my spine, ice across my skin. “No, it’s not okay, but I am sorry. I’m not a people person. I don’t like myself half the time, let alone every other clueless person living on this planet. I’m not good at this.”
Another step back, and another, and then I turn my back on him and start walking away as fast as I can, my mind hissing, laughing, taunting me. I’m just another fuck up and that’s all I’ll ever be. I’m not dependable. I cup my elbows, fingernails biting into the skin of my arms as I try to force back tears.
“Teagan!” I can hear him running to catch up and I have half a mind to sprint back to my car, but there’s a tug on my arm, a hand on my elbow, and he spins me back around. His eyes are wide, surprised. “Wait, just wait. What just happened?” he asks, brows furrowed into worry lines, and I look down at our shoes, mine faded and ratty compared to his well-kept red Chucks. “Teagan.”
“I told you you wouldn’t like what you saw, if you got to know me. I can’t do this. I’m not a nice person, that’s just how it is,” I bite out, jerking out of his grip. He lets me go. My breaths come short and ragged now and I just want to close my eyes and escape, run far away from this boy and his hopeful heart.
“I’m calling bullshit on that one. You are nice, you just don’t give yourself enough credit. Seriously. Everyone has rough edges and yeah, sometimes those edges can be sharp enough to cut, but I’m not going to die from one little scrape. So if you’re trying to chase me off, it’s not gonna happen, okay?”
I purse my lips and look away, but he’s reaching out, his fingers warm as he brushes bangs out of my face. I glance up at him and our eyes meet and his smile softens along with his voice. “I like you, Teagan, probably more than I should. Everyone has problems but that doesn’t mean you give up on that person. I meant what I said—I want to get to know you—but I want you to want it too.”
He steps back. “You have my number. Text me?” He whistles for Beefcake and the dog comes running, sans stick, panting heavily with each stride. “C’mon boy,” he says and the two of them take off across the parking lot, pile into his oversized truck, and drive away.
My entire body trembling on the edge of an earthquake, I stumble back to my car and slide into the driver’s seat, locking the doors behind me. For a long time, I sit there, hands gripping the steering wheel, my face pressed into my hands as frustration builds up—frustration at me and my stupid mouth, and frustration at Eli and everything he seems to stand for. He’s so damn nice and I don’t know if I deserve that, even when my heart is screaming and crying, demanding to be loved and accepted even in its broken state. He scares me in a way that’s completely new and I don’t know how to handle it.
I go home and take a long, hot shower and try once again to rid myself of my memories and fears that seem to hold me back, every step of the way. I towel off and wrap my old robe around myself and curl up in bed, grabbing the notebook off the bedside table as lyrics sprout like flowers in my mind, sharp words spawned from Eli’s words. I want you to want me to…
I want him to, too, and that’s the scary part.
“I don’t have to make any decisions tonight,” I tell myself, my voice loud in the near-silence of my bedroom, but somehow it makes me feel a little less alone. There’s no reason we can’t be friends, right? I could see myself being Eli’s friend, so I text him a two page apology, damn near spilling my heart out, and hope he’ll accept it.
He does and though both of us have class in the morning, we stay up half the night texting, tossing questions back and forth, mostly random things like ‘What’s your favorite color?’ or ‘What kind of films do you prefer?’ but somehow, when I finally settle in to bed in the wee hours of the morning, looping our conversations over again in my head, I fall asleep with
a smile on my face.
Nine
Elias
Just like that, she’s opened up to me again, but she’s cautious. That’s okay, she has that right. I try to keep our conversations light, humorous; the last thing I want is to scare her off again. I’ve seen how skittish she can be, like a feral cat terrified of human contact yet yearning for a touch, and it makes me ache. What’s happened in her life to make her this way? She truly is a beautiful soul, but she’s so afraid to shine, and all I want to do is polish away the scuffs and stains and make her realize how damn beautiful she is.
Jake says I’m crazy and I’m starting to believe him, because I feel so strongly about this girl that I barely even know and to be honest, I’m not sure why. She swings back and forth between frigid cold and scalding hot, her temper like a tempest without a storm warning, and she’s hesitant to tell me even the smallest things about her, and sometimes, it feels like she’s threatened to be sucked away into the void of her own pain. But I really do think she’s a good person, deep down. I want to show her that side of herself. More than anything else, I want to be there for her, with her, when she realizes it.
I visit her at the coffeeshop every morning before school, popping in just for a few minutes of face time while I order something caffeinated to keep me awake during class. We stay up late every night texting so I’ve been getting less sleep than usual, but I’m not about to complain. I’m still riding this high called Teagan and while I know one of these days I’m gonna bottom out and crash? It’s worth it. Despite everything, she makes me happy and I’m thrilled whenever I can get her to smile.
Like today.
“You wanna go out for lunch?”
“I’m kind of at work, Eli,” she says, half-smirking because we both know she knows what I mean. She’s just being ornery.
I lean against the counter. “After your shift.”
She lifts one perfectly slender brow, questioning me with that simple expression. “What about your fancy law school?”
“Screw it, I’ll make up for it,” I tell her. “I’ve got perfect attendance so far. My professor’ll let it slide this time. Please?” I’m being reckless. I don’t even care.
“Hm, I don’t know…” Her blue eyes flash with an impish brilliance as she punches in the price of my double espresso cappuccino. “Four-thirty-two,” she says and I slide the money over to her, our gazes locking.
“Pretty please with a cherry on top?” Ignoring the line of antsy people behind me, demanding their morning brew, I flash a hopeful grin and she laughs and plants my drink down in front of me. The cash register chimes and we both know our time together is up.
“I’ll take you anywhere you wanna go.” I slide my hands across the counter to touch her hands, just the lightest brush of skin, and then grab my drink and step back. “The clock is ticking,” I sing-song.
“I suppose I could manage it,” she says with one of those secret smiles. “I get off at two.”
“Great. See you at two-oh-one.”
She decides on a little retro diner on the edge of town, the whole place done up in black and white checkerboard with shiny chrome accents, old-style photographs framed and hanging on the wall against every booth. We both order the afternoon special—fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy and buttery biscuits—and dig in, chatting and laughing in between bites and it’s simple. Nice.
Teagan finishes first, pushing her plate of chicken bones away from the edge of the table, leaning back in the leather booth seat. Her hands land on her belly, like she can’t believe she ate the whole thing. “I haven’t had a meal this good in ages! Kudos to the chef,” she says.
It kind of startles me, and maybe it’s because I’m used to eating at places way ritzier than this, but while the chicken was good, I wouldn’t say it’s the best chicken I’ve ever had? Sure it beats old KFC, but now I’m curious. “Where do you usually go out to eat?”
She glances up at me with that deer-caught-in-the-headlights look that I’ve come to know so well. Damn me and my stupid mouth. “Forget about it. I’m an idiot,” I tell her, trying to cut her off at the pass, but her face has already darkened, overcast with storm clouds.
“Honestly? I haven’t gone out to eat in months. I live off of iced tea, popcorn, and bags of chicken ramen. If I have an extra paycheck, sometimes I’ll get a frozen meal and heat it up in the microwave.” When I frown, she bristles and looks away quickly. “I don’t want your pity, Elias.”
“I don’t pity you, I’m just…surprised, is all.”
She shakes her head. “Money has never been something I’ve had, so being poor doesn’t bother me. My family was far from wealthy, so it’s not like I’m missing out.”
“Well what if I—”
“No!” She slams a fist down on the table, rattling the salt and pepper shakers, her expression flashing from distantly wary to lioness-fierce. “I don’t do charity. I don’t want your money. I’m making it—I’m on my own, away from my family, and I’m doing just fine.”
“You sound like Jake,” I say softly, looking down at my hands. “Teagan, I…guess I don’t know what to say. I don’t want you to think bad of me, but—”
“But you have buttloads of money, obviously, and that’s fine. I don’t hold it against you. Really, I don’t, but I can’t accept your help. That’s just who I am. I have to do this on my own. I have to stand on my own two feet.”
“Alright.” I nod. I can accept that. “But if—and I say if—we somehow end up dating and I buy you something, you can’t complain because that’s who I am. I love to make people happy, I love to give and luckily for me, I have plenty to give.”
She starts to shake her head, so I point a finger at her. “Ah-ah. No complaining. And if I want to take you out for dinner sometime, I want you to just enjoy it, okay?”
She narrows her eyes at me, but the tension in her shoulders eases a bit. “Fine, but nothing outrageously expensive. I won’t enjoy a meal worth more than I pay in rent.”
“Deal.” I stick out my hand and for a moment, she just looks down at it. Then she slips hers into mine and we shake on it and she smiles, almost shyly. “What?” I prompt.
“Thank you,” is all she says.
“For what?”
“For lunch. It’s nice. You’re nice.”
I can’t stop the grin. “For you? Anytime.”
Ten
Teagan
It’s like I’ve walked into a dream, one so nice that I’m half-afraid to wake up and smell the coffee. Eli is… I don’t even know how to put it into words. Sweet, caring, and gentle with me, but at the same time he’s fiery and stubborn when he wants to get his way. He sees the glass as half full when it comes to me even though I think he’s delusional, that he sees what he wants to see—a perfect girl for his perfect world and I’m not her, but try as I might to prove that to him, he doesn’t care.
Yeah, we’ve argued over things, but he always seems to find a way to settle it that makes us both the winner, like we’re both walking away with the prize and I can’t stay mad at him. It’s physically impossible, especially when he decides he’s going to pout with those puppy dog eyes perfected, no doubt, from Mr. Beefy himself.
It kind of scares me how enamored I am with him. Love, for me, is a fairytale plot device out of a badly written romance novel. I’ve never been in love, but if I were to fall for someone, I think it would definitely be someone like Eli.
When I call Dakota and explain the situation to her, she just chuckles over the phone line and assures me it’ll be okay. “Cherish it, girl. I’d trade you places any day. He sounds adorable and you know what? I think adorable and sweet is just what you need in your life right now.” I start to argue with her and she cuts me off.
“Okay, think of it this way—does he make you smile? When you think about him, how do you feel? Fluttery and giddy and goofy and happy? Now hold onto those feelings. Damn it, Teag, you deserve this. You’re not a broken toy, something to be discarde
d after years of misuse. He sounds like the real deal, like he really likes you, and that’s special. Don’t throw it away.”
There’s silence on the line for a little while I let her words sink in, and her voice softens. “Not every guy is like your father. There are a few good ones still out there. Give him a chance—otherwise I might just steal him for myself!”
We laugh over that, but somehow I know that even with Dakota’s curves and exotic good looks, Elias St. James wouldn’t be swayed from my side. I smile. Maybe I like that, despite the anxiety bubbling anew through my veins telling me that no, I really don’t. It’s just anxiety, I tell myself, but it doesn’t help the way I feel inside.
Time to do something about that.
I get up and change into looser clothes, then plug my earbuds into my ancient mp3 player and take off for a walk in the park. I let the music guide me through my buzzingly elated and yet confused emotions, each step I take more brisk than the last until I’ve worked up a good sweat and my fears ebb to the point of being manageable.
I find my favorite spot—a park bench stationed right beneath a big old oak tree—and settle in to text Eli, wondering what he’s up to today and when he texts back that he’s got nothing going on, I go out on a limb and ask him to come to the park. My heart is racing—this is the first I’ve initiated contact—but maybe I’m ready for it. Maybe I’m ready to face down this demon haunting at the edges of my mind. I like Eli, more than I should, and obviously the feeling is mutual.
Half an hour later, he comes strolling up wearing a lopsided smile as he offers me a single white rose with a satin red ribbon tied around the stem. “For you, milady. Be careful of the thorns,” he warns as I pluck it from his grasp and raise it to my nose in a too-girly fashion, but my heart is giddy. First icing flowers, and now a real rose, and it’s beautiful and for once, the gesture isn’t lost on me.
“You didn’t have to,” I tell him.
Neverlost (Melodies and Memories) Page 5