CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Normally this is the part where you flip the tape over, or change one burnt CD for another, but technology has managed to make it more convenient for us all to relive our individual soundtracks anywhere, anytime, at our fingertips.
All I had to do was press the little right facing triangle on my iPhone to submerge myself back into a life that seemed light years ago.
I had to hand it to technology, though. It played a major role in my success, but it didn’t happen overnight.
It was just like I’d told Reid: it takes years and one minute past desperation.
I waited that one minute.
It wasn’t about the if; it was about the when.
I collapsed into the lumpy bed at the motel I’d found when exhaustion hit and tears began fusing with the rain-streaked windshield.
I stared at the mustard-colored popcorn ceiling with my tweed jacket still on and my life’s tool in my hand.
I sometimes wished I had a foggy memory.
That I couldn’t remember the details, the dates, the story.
It was both my gift and my curse.
And music was my navigation. I had followed the music my whole life. My guidance, my protection, my ammunition. I followed it to Austin and into the arms of my first love, only to be ripped apart. But music was loyal and stayed with me, my constant, my comfort, and, at times, my enabler.
I rolled over in bed, facing the paneled wood wall.
Though I wanted nothing to do with the damn time machine in my hand, I had no choice, because despite our differences about the journey, I remained loyal and took direction.
And because I followed, the road narrowed and shed light on memories that just kept circling, begging to be acknowledged long after the last note.
I stared at the ticking notifications on the bottom of the screen and ignored them, opting to send a text instead.
In a shitty motel behind a bolt-locked door. Don’t worry. I love you.
The bubbles started and stopped for an eternity. He’d had time to think and he was not a happy man.
Why the fuck aren’t you home?
That’s the thing about intimacy and truly knowing the person you’re with.
They always know when something’s off, no matter how casually you try to sweep your unease away.
They know. It’s their job, because in the song of your life, they are the ones listening.
It’s when they stop that you need to worry.
He’d listened to mine. He knew when a beat was missing, or a note was forgotten.
He’d memorized my song, and I was his favorite.
I’ll be home tomorrow night. I love you.
The bubbles started and stopped again, and I could feel the call coming, but he left it alone.
After a hot shower in the questionably yellow stall, I lay across the floral comforter and plugged in my time machine before I glanced at the clock.
11:11 p.m. Make a wish, Stella.