Slipping the paper into my glove box, among a few other of my favorites of Ryen’s letters, I take my pen, hovering it over the notepad that sits on my lap.
“Spread on your bravery, line the eyes and the lips,” I say under my breath as I write on the paper, “glue up the cracks and paint over the rips.”
I stop and think as I pull my bottom lip in between my teeth, grazing the piercing there. “A little here,” I mumble, the lyrics turning in my head, “to cover the bags under your eyes, and some pink on your cheeks to spread the lies.”
I quickly jot down the words, my chicken scratch barely visible inside the dark car.
I hear my phone beep again, and I falter. “Alright,” I growl, willing the damn texts to stop. Can’t my bandmates host a party without me for five minutes?
I put the pen to paper again, trying to finish my thought, but I stop, searching my brain. What the hell was next? A little here to cover the bags under your eyes…
I squeeze my eyes shut, repeating the line over and over again, trying to remember the rest.
I let out a breath. Shit, it’s gone.
Dammit.
I cap the pen, tossing that and the notepad onto the passenger seat of my Raptor.
I think about her last sentence. Name my price, huh?
Well, how about a phone call then, Ryen? Let me hear your voice for the first time?
But no. Ryen likes to keep our friendship status quo. It works, after all. Why risk losing it by changing it?
And she’s right, I guess. What if I hear her voice and her letters become less special? I get to imagine her personality through her words. That would change if I heard her tone.
But what if I hear her voice and I like it? What if her laughter in my ear or her breathing into the phone haunts me as much as her words, and I want more?
I’m already obsessed enough with her letters. Which is why I’m sitting in my truck in an empty parking lot, rereading one of her old ones, because they inspire my music.
She’s my muse, and she has to know it by now. I’ve been using her as a bouncing board for years, sending her lyrics to read.
My phone rings, and I look down to see Dane’s name.
I let out a hard sigh and snatch it up. “What?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m on my way.” I start the truck and put it in Drive.
“No, you’re sitting in some parking lot writing lyrics again, aren’t you?”
I roll my eyes and end the call, tossing my phone onto the passenger seat.
So driving helps me think. He doesn’t need to bust my ass just because I can’t help it when ideas hit me.
Pulling onto the street, I lay on the gas and head to the old warehouse outside of town. Our band is hosting a scavenger hunt to raise money for our summer tour in a few months, and even though I thought we should just set up some gigs—maybe team up with a few other local bands—Dane thought something different would draw in a bigger crowd.
I guess we’ll see if he’s right.
The bitter February chill cuts through my hoodie, and I turn on the heater and flip on my brights, the wide light casts a glow deep into the darkness ahead.
This is the road to Falcon’s Well where Ryen lives. If I keep going, I’ll pass the warehouse, the turn off for the Cove—an abandoned amusement park—and eventually, I’ll arrive in her town. Many times since I got my license I’ve been tempted to drive there, my curiosity overwhelming, but I never did. Like I said, it’s not worth the risk of losing what we have. Unless she agrees to it, too.
I lean over to the passenger seat and shove the notepad and other papers away, searching for my watch. I’d left it in here yesterday when I washed the outside of the truck, and it’s one of the only things I’m responsible with. It’s a family heirloom.
Kind of.