Nodding, I turn and head for the kitchen. “Right. Makes sense. I just didn’t expect that, so it threw me off. Do you want some water?” I call over my shoulder, but when I turn my head to look, he’s right there, his blue eyes sparkling in amusement.
“Water would be great.”
I take two mismatched glasses down from the cabinet—one etched with snowflakes, the other bearing the logo of a dentist office somewhere—and fill them with water. Colt seems to fill the kitchen, so I scoot back against the counter top and hand him his glass, watching him watch me over the rim as he drinks deeply.
Is he waiting for me to lead this discussion? This was all his idea after all. I don’t know what I’m doing here with him. I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea in the first place. And the more he stares at me like that, the more he kisses me like he did, the more I’m rethinking the wisdom of this. But it’s too late to back out now. If we “break up,” it’ll do more damage to my reputation, and I can’t afford that right now.
No, I’ve got to ride this thing until we reach the end of the line, whenever and wherever that may be. And I’m definitely not thinking about riding anything else. Like him. Nope. Not at all.
“Are you okay?”
The question surprises me, making me jump, but at least I manage to swallow my water without spitting it all over him. I nod like a bobble head doll. “I’m fine. Super. Totally great.” And then I give him a thumbs up. Because I’ve always been a dork and only a fine veneer of social education from my friends has kept it from coming out before. But now? Trapped in a small space with a charming, hot guy who kisses me like my mouth holds the answers to all of life’s questions?
Yeah … I can’t keep a lid on that shit anymore apparently.
His lips turn up at the corners. “You sure about that? Because you seem a little nervous.”
Setting my glass on the counter, I force myself to take a deep breath and calm down. “I am,” I admit, deciding that brutal honesty is probably the best course here. He needs to know all my idiosyncrasies if he’s going to be able to stay ahead of them in public, after all.
He nods toward the living room. “Let’s sit. And talk.”
I follow him out of the kitchen, mute, and perch on one end of the loveseat I bought when I moved in here. That, my mattress, and my linens are the only things I bought new. All my other housewares came from various thrift stores and estate sales I’ve scavenged since we moved to LA. Katie, Mia, and I shared an apartment for a while. But I moved in here after the accident, taking what I bought for that apartment with me, and replacing as much as I could. But since it’s just me and I never have anyone over, I haven’t added more seating to the living room. So Colt sits on the other cushion, much closer than I’m comfortable with at the moment, but there’s not exactly anywhere else for him to sit, unless I drag over one of the chairs from my tiny dining table.
He drapes his arm across the back of the couch, his fingers trailing close to my shoulder, and I hold my breath in anticipation of him touching me, but he doesn’t.
“So …” he starts, but the word lingers in the air, just floating there like a deflating balloon.
I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t.
“So,” I repeat, hoping maybe that’ll jumpstart something.
But again, the word just sits there, flopping on the floor like a fish out of water.
“La,” I whisper, unable to help myself.
He cracks a smile. “Should I finish with Ti and Do?” he asks, his voice quivering with suppressed laughter.
I shrug. “Your call.”
His laughter echoes through my tiny apartment, filling up the space and sweeping out the dying Sos, replacing their awkwardness with warmth.
He’s still smiling even after his laughter fades, his eyes filled with a newfound respect I hadn’t realized was missing. He bends his elbow and rests his head on his fist. “So you’re not just a pretty face and a voice. You actually know about music too.”
I shrug, torn between annoyance at his assumption that I wouldn’t and happiness that my knowledge makes him respect me more. “Some.”
“My sister-in-law is a violinist. Studied music in college. She didn’t graduate, because she decided to join my brother on tour and get married, but I’ve learned a lot from her. Jonathan has too. He credits her for getting him back on stage. The story goes that he was working on a song and couldn’t get it right. He played it for her, she tinkered with it on the piano for five minutes, and then it was perfect. A friend of his convinced him to play it at a party not long after that, someone recorded it and posted it online, the video went viral, and here we are.” He lifts his free hand and lets it fall into his lap.
“That’s cool.” I’m not really sure what else there is to say to that. I knew that Johnny B’s wife was a musician too and a frequent collaborator with other artists. We never used her, partly because we weren’t big enough to get a slot on her schedule, and partly because her style doesn’t necessarily mesh with ours. At least that’s what we always said.
Colt’s smile slips. “Yeah. Cool. That’s one word for it.”
It’s my turn to raise my eyebrows to invite further explanation. Because the tone of Colt’s voice makes it seem like cool isn’t the word
