Chapter Eighteen #3
Compared to the paddock, though, it’s still way too quiet.
I’m flat on my back staring at the ceiling while my brain decides this is the perfect time to run through every setup sheet I touched today like there’s going to be a surprise exam at three in the morning.
Very helpful.
Then it moves on to the course, because apparently ruining sleep wasn’t enough. Stone walls. Houses. Elevation changes. Blind sections. All the places where one tiny mistake can turn into a much bigger fucking problem before anyone even has time to realize it happened.
And don’t even get me started on the speed they’ll be going.
I roll onto my side and shove my face into the pillow.
“Enough.”
My brain basically tells me to get fucked.
Another ten minutes pass with me mentally taking apart motorcycles that are already perfectly fine, so I finally throw the blankets back before I start diagnosing imaginary suspension problems too.
My notebook is sticking halfway out of my bag, guitar case propped against the wall beside it, and I stare at both like they’ve personally volunteered to deal with me.
Good enough.
I stare at both for a second.
Tools during the day.
Strings at night.
Apparently that’s my version of coping with, well, life.
I pull on the oversized hoodie draped over the chair, grab the notebook and guitar, then slip downstairs quietly so I don’t wake half the house.
The living room is dark except for one small lamp beside the couch. I leave the main lights off and settle into the corner with one leg tucked underneath me, the guitar resting across my lap and my notebook open beside my thigh.
The page is a mess.
Half-finished verses. Words crossed out so many times I can barely read what used to be there. Little arrows shoved between lines because apparently writing neatly is beyond me once the song starts fighting back.
I’ve been messing with this one for a while.
It started back in Tampa as a couple of lines I didn’t know what to do with, mostly because I didn’t know what the hell I was trying to say yet.
Now I think I do.
Home.
Not the house Mom and I lived in.
Not the motel, or even really Tampa either.
Something harder to explain.
That weird feeling of finding somewhere after spending most of your life assuming there wasn’t one waiting for you.
Showing up late to people’s lives and somehow still being given a place at the table.
Wanting to believe you belong while some stupid little part of you keeps waiting for everyone to realize they made a mistake.
I play through the progression quietly, fingertips moving over the strings while I hum under my breath and let the melody do some of the thinking for me.
That part has always been easier.
Music doesn’t ask me to explain myself before it lets me feel something.
I try the first verse again, change a word halfway through, immediately hate it, then scratch it out hard enough that the pen nearly tears the page.
“Fucking brilliant.”
The chorus is worse.
I know what I want it to feel like. I just can’t get the words to stop sounding like I’m trying too hard.
I play it again, softer this time.
Then something finally clicks.
“Leave a light on if I’m late coming home…”
My fingers still against the strings.
Okay.
That doesn’t completely suck.
I grab the pen and write it down before I can overthink it to death.
Then I start again, voice low enough that I’m barely giving the words any room to exist.
“Leave a light on if I’m late coming home,
I’ve been lost long enough to know…”
The next line refuses to show up.
I let the chord ring out while I stare at the page.
Nothing.
“Helpful.”
“Do you always insult your songs when they don’t cooperate?”
I nearly launch the guitar across the fucking room.
My head snaps toward the doorway.
Wolfe is leaning against the frame in gray sweatpants and a dark T-shirt, hair messy and mouth already twitching like scaring ten years off my life is somehow entertaining.
I press a hand to my chest.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Little bit.”
I narrow my eyes. “Were you just fucking lurking?”
“Listening.”
“That’s a prettier word for lurking.”
He pushes away from the doorway and walks farther into the room. “You told me you played. You left out the part where you can actually sing.”
“I didn’t leave it out.”
“You definitely did.”
“You never asked.”
His brow lifts. “You told me you write songs. Pretty sure singing was implied somewhere in there.”
“Then why are you acting surprised?”
“I’m not surprised you sing.” His expression softens slightly. “I’m surprised you’re that good.”
I look back down at the guitar.
He sits on the other end of the couch, one arm resting across the back cushion while he looks at me with that steady expression of his.
“You’re really good, Echo.”
My stomach does something deeply annoying.
I shrug and start adjusting the guitar against my thigh even though it doesn’t need adjusting.
“I’m all right.”
“No.”
I glance over.
“You’re good.”
“You two lines of a song.”
“I heard enough.”
“It’s unfinished.”
“Doesn’t make your voice unfinished.”
I look down at the strings again.
“I just mess around with it.”
Wolfe goes quiet for a second.
I can feel him watching me.
Then he says, “You do that a lot.”
I frown. “Do what?”
“Make yourself smaller right after somebody tells you you’re good at something.”
My fingers stop moving.
Well.
Fuck him.
“That feels a little aggressive.”
His mouth twitches. “It wasn’t.”
“You came downstairs, lurked in a doorway, then psychologically profiled me at one in the morning.”
“I told you I like your voice.”
“And somehow made it emotionally inconvenient.”
“Talent.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s no real heat in it.
The annoying thing is that he’s right.
Compliments are easy when they’re jokes. Easy when I can throw something back and keep moving.
It’s different when someone actually means them.
I run my thumb along the edge of the pick.
“Bikes are easier.”
Wolfe tilts his head. “Than music?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
I hesitate, mostly because explaining this makes it sound far more serious than I want it to be.
Then again, Wolfe has never been particularly bothered by my attempts to keep things unserious.
“Bikes make sense. Something’s wrong, I find it.
I change something. I know if I fixed it because the bike either works better or it doesn’t.
” I glance down at the notebook. “Music is different. You write something that actually means something to you, put it in front of someone, and then basically wait to find out if they think it’s shit. ”
“That sounds terrifying.”
“It is.”
“And you still do it.”
“Apparently I enjoy suffering.”
He smiles, but it fades quickly, his eyes staying on mine for another second before his voice softens.
“Come here, wanye?a.”
I look at him, and set the guitar carefully against the couch before crossing the space between us. His hand finds my waist like it already belongs there. Solid and steady, as his thumb presses into my side, grounding instead of grabbing.
“You don’t gotta shine so hard for everyone.”
The joke sitting on my tongue dies before I can use it.
He hooks a knuckle under my chin and lifts my face just enough so I can’t dodge him.
“I see you.”
My chest tightens at that. Because I know he does, he always has.
Not only when I’m useful, or making everyone laugh or keeping somebody else from spiraling. He notices the shit underneath too. When I’m tired. When I’m nervous. Even when I’m hiding behind being loud because being honest feels worse.
I swallow and hold his gaze.
“You’re being disgustingly sweet again.”
His thumb moves once against my side.
“I mean, I can stop.”
“No.”
The answer comes out too quickly.
His smile turns softer.
“Didn’t think so.”
I lean into him without really deciding to, forehead resting against his shoulder while his arm settles around my waist. He doesn’t turn it into anything bigger. Doesn’t start dissecting my childhood or demanding I tell him why compliments make me uncomfortable.
He just holds me.
For a minute, that’s enough.
Eventually he nudges my hip lightly.
“Play the chorus again.”
I lift my head. “Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Because now I know you’re listening.”
“I was listening before.”
“That was unauthorized lurking.”
He laughs softly. “Oh, come on.”
“Nope.”
“Please?”
I narrow my eyes, anf pull away from him grabbing the guitar again before I can change my mind, settling back into the corner while Wolfe stays close enough that our knees touch.
“If you laugh, I’m never speaking to you again.”
“Echo.”
“What?”
“Play.”
I glare at him for another second, then give in and settle my fingers over the strings.
The first chord feels louder now.
Everything does, actually.
My voice comes out quieter than before because knowing someone is listening changes the whole fucking thing, and I hate that Wolfe notices because his expression softens without him saying a word.
So I keep going.
The verse.
The line I changed.
Then the chorus.
“Leave a light on if I’m late coming home,
I’ve been lost long enough to know…”
I let the missing line breathe instead of forcing something into it, then move into the only other lyric I’ve decided I actually like.
“Maybe home’s just somewhere
they notice when you’re gone.”
The last chord fades slowly beneath my fingers.
I stare down at the strings.
“Well?”
Wolfe is quiet for long enough that my nerves immediately start crawling back in.
Then he says, “Play it again.”
I look up. “That’s your feedback?”
“Yep.”
“You’re useless.”
“Maybe.” His knee bumps mine.“But I want to hear it again.”
Something warm settles in my chest. I glance down at the notebook, at the unfinished chorus and all the crossed-out lines surrounding it, then reposition my fingers over the strings.
This time when I start from the beginning, I don’t keep my voice as low.
Wolfe doesn’t interrupt.
Doesn’t try to tell me what the song means or fix the missing line for me.
He just sits beside me and listens.
And for once, being heard doesn’t feel anything like being exposed.