Chapter 68
I n the distance, the four-hundred-foot-tall spires of the Margaret Hunt bridge glow. Googling it while Bo ordered a pizza, I learned the bridge connects one side of the Trinity River to the other. It doesn’t seem like a coincidence that Bo chose this spot under the lamps in the mostly deserted parking lot for us to eat dinner together.
“You want that last slice?” Bo asks, not breaking into my reverie since whatever my thoughts might be, he’s prominently featured.
“No.” I shake my head and pat my stomach. “I’m full. Have at it.”
“It was amazing singing with you today.” He reaches for the slice of Italian sausage, onion, and mushroom pizza. Standing opposite each other, we’ve been using the leather seat of the Harley as a table.
“It was pretty cool.” I downplay how significant it felt, not just to sing but to experience music with him again. Music is the bridge between us. My mind, my body, my soul, all three connected singing with him today.
“You’re cool.” He gives me the intense version of his stare.
Does he still think so? Can we begin again, erasing the lost years and the missteps between us? Does he want to erase the night we spent together in Seattle? I know I don’t.
“What are you doing with your music lately?” I ask and lick my dry lips, remembering our night together makes my blood heat and my heart race.
“You asking as a Black Cat intern?” His gorgeous eyes narrow. “Or as a friend?”
“A friend.” No matter what else I might long to be, I’m committed to being that.
He tosses the pizza crust into the open pizza box. “I don’t feel like creating anything new apart from you.”
“I don’t feel like writing lyrics without you either,” I admit. His words wrap around me like a comforting embrace. Most of the journaling I’ve done since we parted is just an ode to missing him.
“I miss your poetry.” He wipes his fingers on a napkin. “And the sharing we used to do.”
Tears prick my eyes. “I miss that too.” I miss you. All of you. Intimacy with him is so much more than merely physical.
“I used to hear music in my head all the time when you were around.”
“What kind of music?” I lean toward him. The Harley is the only barrier between us.
“Acoustic chords mostly,” he replies, his fingers moving at his sides. “If I had my guitar, I’d show you.”
“Can you hum a few bars?”
He nods and does. The deep rasp of his singing voice plucks my heartstrings, releasing a flood of emotions that have been dammed inside me. Words flowing, I sing them while he hums.
“Being with you I feel so free
You turn your gorgeous eyes to me
And then you hum so perfectly
You ask what will become of us, my dear
And I smile and clutch your hand in mine.”
I smile at him for real. Reaching across the seat, music is more than a bridge. It’s a place where my affection for him is greater than my fears.
“You’ve changed my life,” I continue with the lyrics that verbalize my truth the way his guitar playing does his.
“I say the future is ours to write
I don’t have much in this world
But I want to share it all with you.”
“I can hear Levi crashing in with his drums right there,” he says.
“Me too.” I nod. The years separating us seem to disappear.
“This is how we came up with words and the melody for ‘Wish On’.” He brings me back to the present, reminiscing about the past.
“I remember.” The truth is I can never forget. I don’t even want to try. I wish we had never separated, wish I hadn’t let my insecurities come between us, but I pull back on that thought. Wishes aren’t reality. “Thanks for going with me to the guitar shop and for dinner.”
He nods, his silver-green eyes taking on an intense gleam for some reason.
“Tell me about yourself.” I missed too much during the years we were apart. We can’t go backward, but maybe we can find a way forward. “Besides the band, what have you been up to?”
“You already know the important stuff.” He shrugs a wide shoulder.
“No, I don’t. Not really.” I shake my head. If I knew him better, I would have been able to convince him to continue what we started in that hotel room. “What’s your favorite color?” I ask. “Your favorite food? What shows are you watching?”
“Those are superficial things.”
“Not to me,” I disagree. “Not if I want to know.”
“My favorite color is gold.” He picks up the pizza box from the seat of the Harley and tosses it into a nearby trash receptacle. “Those little magical flecks of it in your eyes mesmerize me. My favorite food is pizza, obviously. I don’t watch many shows. I don’t have the time.” He comes around to my side of the Harley. “When I do have free time, I usually put on my headphones and listen to music, just like when we were kids. So it’s your turn now. What about you? What’s your favorite color?”
“Pink,” I reply inelegantly. I’m dizzy, my mind spinning in circles since he said my eyes mesmerize him.
“I knew that.” He nods. “Nearly every article of clothing you wear is that color. It’s one of my favorites too. You blush pink. Plus, your irresistible lips and other secret parts of you that I got to know intimately are that color too.” His sculpted lips curve, and my belly swoops. “I also know you love your mom’s cinnamon rolls. But if you’re reading a good book, or you’re stressed about something, you forget to eat. And I know without you telling me that you have viewed every single film that’s based on a book. Did I get all those right?”
“Yeah,” I admit sheepishly. “But I only watch film adaptations if I’ve read the book first because everyone knows books are better.”
“I already know a ton of stuff about you.” He smirks. “So let’s dive into more recent developments.” His expression darkens with sudden displeasure. “Tell me about the football player you’re dating.”
“I’m not dating anyone,” I whisper. “How do you know about Lance?”
“You went to a Tempest concert in the Hollywood Bowl with him.” He frowns. “It made the news. I saw the photos.”
And apparently drank so much he gave himself alcohol poisoning, according to his father. I still can’t believe Bryan got the motivation for that bender right.
“He wasn’t my boyfriend, and we’re not dating. Not anymore.” I drop my gaze, my stomach pitching remembering the night at the concert.
“Good. Seeing those photos of you with him made me mad. I drank too much after and was hospitalized. I don’t drink anymore. This is my second go round with sobriety, and this one’s going to stick.” His footsteps crunch on the gravel as he moves closer. “So it’s your turn to share. Talk to me about this guy, explain what happened. I can tell whatever it is makes you sad.” Wedging his finger under my chin, he lifts my head. His eyes hold mine, and I don’t shy away from the questions in his. I’ve never told anyone what happened, but I want to tell Bo. I need to. It isn’t only Bo’s body I crave. It’s his understanding.
“I didn’t date anyone until Lance.” I search Bo’s eyes. Not finding surprise or judgment within them gives me the courage to continue. “He was in one of my classes. He asked me out several times. I finally said yes because I hoped…” I trail off. The truth is I hoped he might help me get over my crush on Bo.
“You hoped what?” he presses. “Don’t be afraid to tell me. Your secret is safe with me.” He captures and tucks a long strand of my hair behind my ear.
Butterflies flap their wings inside my chest and the truth tumbles free. “I hoped he might help me get over my crush on you,” I admit.
“Fuck me.” He steps back like my words are repugnant.
“Yeah.” I look away, but looking away won’t change the fact that the thought of my being hung up on him is distasteful. I need to accept that Bo never was on the same page as me. “Lance was a bad choice,” I confess. “He was obsessive. Cruel. I tried to break it off with him when I realized that, but the break didn’t take on his side.”
“What do you mean?” he asks softly.
I look up and give it to him straight. “He stalked me. He cornered me a few times. Touched me when I asked him not to. The cost for getting away from him that last time left bruises.” My lids flutter. “Sometimes I think I must have a sign around my neck that says, ‘I’m weak, mistreat me.’”
“Sweetheart, no.” His eyes flash with anger.
“Nothing is sweet about Lance.” I speak in a rush, needing to get it all out before I lose my nerve. “Before my flight home, I stopped by the campus. He saw me go into the women’s locker room alone. He followed me.” I shiver. “He cornered me and?—”
“Did he—” Bo cuts in, his expression livid.
“No, it never went that far.” I wrap my arms around myself to ward off the chill. “But in retrospect, I realize it could have.”
“Baby. Fuck.” He grabs my upper arms and yanks me into him. “I’m sorry.” His chest is a solid wall, not to crush but to shelter me. I press my face into the gap in his shirt and wrap my arms around him. “It’s okay. You’re okay now.” My rapid heartbeats slow. Bo is my anchor, a safe haven. Without him, I’m alone and adrift. I let out a shaky breath. “One of the coaches made him leave. She told me I should press charges.”
“You should. You shouldn’t let guys like that get away with that shit. They count on your silence so they can get away with doing it again. If not to you, to some other girl.”
“I know. I’ve read all the literature, but after all the stuff that happened with Mark when we were kids, it just seems like it’s my fault. I know that’s wrong thinking. I realize it’s them not me.”
“Good.” He gently raises my head and gives me a firm look. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Peace Jinkins. You’re incredible. Always have been.”
Nothing wrong with me except I don’t have him.