Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Rhett
Olivia hovers over me as I pull the brownies out of the oven. Her warmth simultaneously comforts me and makes me uneasy.
I don’t know how I ended up cooking her dinner and baking her brownies. I’ve never done anything like this for another human being, let alone a woman who isn’t even my girlfriend. Our whole relationship feels like it’s quickly getting out of hand. The more I try to wrangle things back in, the more things slip out of my control. It’s exhausting trying to keep my feelings in check, and my resolve to remain “just friends” is wearing thinner by the day.
Something changed that day we spent together after her panic attack. We both let each other in just a little bit, and I think we both realized it felt good. As much as I hate to admit it, Olivia’s presence lights me up, and damn it, I love the feeling. I can’t get enough of it, of her. Even if I should stay away, I can’t. Somehow that logic makes me feel better. This is all out of my control. Whatever might happen between us isn’t my fault. It isn’t me naively giving in to love again. It’s me making the best of the cards I’ve been dealt.
“I don’t know how you were blessed with the beautiful gift of being an expert baker, but I’m not complaining. Can we dig in now? The smell is killing me!”
I push her back with a smile. “These need to set for twenty minutes, or they’re going to be a mess.”
“That’s okay. I like my brownies to be like my life, a hot, gooey mess.”
“Your life is gooey?” I scrunch up my nose in disgust.
“I don’t know. It sounded better in my head.” She brushes past me to look in my freezer. “Do you have ice cream? Brownies need ice cream.”
I step in closer, pushing the freezer closed and ignoring the way her closeness makes my heart pound out of my chest. “You’re getting way too comfortable around here, but yes, I have ice cream. You can’t have brownies without it in my opinion.”
“I agree.” She returns to the table and picks up her phone, rattling off a list of businesses. “Do you think this is enough? I’m guessing there will be a few people who say no when I call, so I want to make sure we have a big enough list.”
“I think that will be perfect. We don’t want to overwhelm ourselves. We only have a few weeks to get this planned if we are going to do everything before you go back to San Francisco.” The words make my stomach drop, and I swear they have the same effect on Olivia because the determined spark in her eyes fades.
“Right, of course. I still have a little over two months left here though.” I’m pretty sure she’s talking more to herself than anyone at this point. “Do you think six weeks is enough time to plan everything?”
“I think that will work.”
“Then it’s settled. I’ll call everyone tomorrow and keep you updated. I can talk to Callie during my shift tomorrow too. I’m sure she’ll want to be involved, and we will probably need her help baking and prepping for the café’s part of the event.”
She sits down in her chair at the table with a huff. “Is it time to eat the brownies yet?”
“Let’s just sit for a little bit. We have at least fifteen more minutes until we can cut into the brownies.”
She pouts, and she looks so dang cute doing it that I can’t help myself as I reach out to her, pulling her from her chair and into my arms. “What are you doing?” She giggles. Her laughter is more intoxicating than any drug.
“Let’s go outside. You need to stop thinking about every little thing, and you could clearly use a distraction while we wait for the brownies.”
“I don’t think going outside is going to be enough to quiet my mind.”
“Just trust me.”
Surprisingly, she doesn’t pepper me with questions as I set her and Maverick out on the back porch with nothing but the porch lights and the soft setting sun. Moments later, I return, guitar in hand.
Her eyes grow round. “You play guitar?”
“I do.”
She bites her lip as if she’s refraining from saying anything more, but the dark look in her eyes makes me shift nervously. If I think too hard about it, I’m going to take that look as more than it surely is.
I put my whole focus into tuning the guitar carefully. “It’s been a while since I’ve played. Life has been a little hectic over the last few weeks since I got this new roommate.” I give her a small smile, and she returns it with a look of pure glee. “Do you have any requests?”
“What can you play?”
“A lot. I’ve been playing since I was twelve years old. My guitar playing is much better than my baking in my opinion.”
She presses both of her palms to her cheeks and slowly drags them down her face. “Rhett!”
“What?”
“How are you so perfect?”
“I’m not.” I feel the shadows rolling in at her words, but I do my best to shake them off.
Thinking for a moment, I finally offer, “How about some Warren Zeiders?”
“You mean you listen to music that isn’t by George Strait?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course I do. I’ll play you the song on the guitar first and then I’ll show you the real song. I don’t need you judging my rusty guitar skills after you’ve heard the real thing.”
“Okay, but you have to tell me the name of the song first or I’m never going to be the country music aficionado you want me to be.”
“’Weeping Willow.’”
As I begin strumming gently, I let the music take me to another place. I’m no longer sitting on this back porch. I’m a part of the music. My foot taps along involuntarily. I don’t realize it until I see Olivia’s look of shock, but I’m singing along to the song.
She gives me an eager nod of assurance. “Keep going,” she whispers, barely audible.
Her words encourage me, so I keep going, keeping my eyes on Olivia, strumming vigorously, and singing about how the woman in the song is so incredible that she could even make a weeping willow smile. As I play the closing chords, it hits me how perfectly this song fits Olivia. She’s brought color to my life and made me smile when I had fallen into this stale routine I never planned on getting out of.
Her eyes remain closed till the end like she’s completely absorbed in what I’m playing for her. I can’t help but think maybe I did a good job. Perhaps I really did get her out of her head for those three minutes.
When I stop, her eyes shoot open. “Play another. Please.”
I begin strumming again, this time playing a more upbeat tune. “This one is ‘Coal’ by Dylan Gossett.”
I lose myself in the song as I recall the lyrics that talk about a man’s struggles through life, wondering how those struggles and all the weight they’ve brought with them haven’t turned him from coal into a diamond. I have always related deeply to those lyrics, but I can’t help but feel just a little bit lighter this time playing the song with Olivia’s adoring gaze on me.
As I wind down the song again, she admits, “I don’t want to hear the original versions of the songs. I like yours.” The words are a whisper, as if she’s afraid they’ll take us out of this moment. “I never want you to stop playing. It just brings me so much peace. I know you’re not going to like hearing this, but you’re so good.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice.” I brush her off, pulling my hat down to hopefully hide the way my face is turning an aggressive shade of red. “I’ve written a few of my own songs, without lyrics of course. Would you like to hear one?”
Her face splits into a huge grin, and I don’t even have to wait for her response to strike the first chord. I’m not sure what compelled me to make this offer. I only started writing songs five years ago. Inspiration came from some of the best and then some of the most difficult times in my life, and I haven’t been able to write music since. Writing music helped me get through a tough time of unrelenting grief and guilt, and then it was over. I was done. The songs were never meant to be shared with a soul. Yet here I am.
Less than thirty seconds in, Olivia is closing her eyes again as she gently sways her body to the melody, completely enraptured. There’s a moment where I consider telling her everything, where this song came from, and why I am who I am today. It should be a betrayal to share this song with her. It was written for someone else after all, but it doesn’t feel wrong. When I glance up at her and see her soft amber eyes set on me, it makes all this feel right. That look makes me feel like a good man. It makes me feel worthy of love and adoration, but I know better.
I know if I tell her the truth, she won’t look at me like that again, so instead of telling her everything, I keep quiet as I continue to play her a song that I wrote after I lost my fiancée four years ago.