Chapter 17 – Willa #2
I nod, then follow him into the house. We step into the kitchen, where open cabinets with no faces fill the space.
He grabs an unopened bottle of water from one, handing it to me before moving toward the hall bathroom.
There, he opens a cabinet, grabs a bottle, shakes two pills into his hand, and offers them to me.
I down the small white pills and chug about half of the drink, then awkwardly follow him out of the small room.
“What’s this room?” I ask, tipping my chin towards an empty room across the way. Blue tape lines the edges, and a tarp covers the floor, a tray with an unopened can of paint, and a roller beside it.
“It’s going to be a guest room. It had three layers of wallpaper I had to take off, then spackle. I’ve got the primer done, now I just need color.”
“What color are you thinking?” I ask, desperate to know anything I can about this project. I would do absolutely anything to have an old house of my own to fix up, but I know even now, Jackie would disapprove and insist on hiring a firm to handle the design and execution. He lifts a shoulder.
“Not sure. I have to go to the hardware store in town tomorrow, see if I can make a choice.”
I nod, then speak without thinking. “A light blue would be nice, I think. Very calming and welcoming.”
He lifts an eyebrow at me, and a nervous blush burns over my cheeks and down my chest.
“Welcoming and calming?”
“That’s what they always say on those home shows,” I explain quickly.
“Home shows? You watch those?”
“They’re what I watch on the road. Easy to watch, no storyline I have to follow, and they don’t require a ton of brain power.” I shrug, suddenly feeling silly and picking at the edge of my shirt. Leo’s shirt, I suppose.
“I wouldn’t pin you for a home decor show kind of girl.”
I lift my head, then tip my chin at him, unable to fight back the smile.
“What would you pin me for?”
“I don’t know. Reality TV? Housewives of some random city?”
I shrug. “Too close to my real life, I suppose. I want to escape.”
“Is that why you were drunk last night?”
“No, no,” I say with a smile, shaking my head. I should keep it to myself, but I can’t in this state, so I finally spill to him. “I’m here because I have writer’s block. Adam told me I needed to get a life to fix it, so I came here,” I explain.
“So you’re not here to escape boredom after I told you that you have to hide away?”
I shake my head. “No, no. I’m actually very okay with being bored. I don’t get the chance very often.”
“So how’s it going?”
“The boredom?”
He laughs, shaking his head, crossing his arms on his chest, and I fight not to stare at the way his biceps bulge as he does.
I fail miserably. My god who knew all this was hiding beneath those suits?
“No. Not the writing. The getting a life part.”
“Oh, uh,” I start, then bite my lip. “It’s kind of a mixed bag. I wrote one song so far, but I keep getting stuck. I was hoping going out last night might have helped, stirred up some things to write about.”
“And? Did it work?” He takes me in, assessing, and I feel naked beneath his gaze. Still, I force my breathing to remain steady. His look gives me the same light feeling as last night, and for a moment, I wonder if I’m still a bit drunk.
“Too soon to tell. But I think…” My mind travels, pulling at threads that I’ve sensed on the edge of my mind since I woke up. “I think I may have a little bit of something.”
He reads me, and for a moment, panic sweeps through me, worried if maybe he knows what I’m thinking, if maybe he knows that the little bit of something might be tied to him in the smallest way,
We remain locked in that look for long minutes before he blinks, shakes his head, and then tips it towards the front door.
“Well, then I guess we should get you home, see if you can’t get something onto paper.”
And in my hungover state, I can’t seem to assign any other name to the feeling in my chest than disappointment.
That night, I write.
I write, and I write, and I write, more inspired than ever before, the words and the chords flowing onto paper at an alarming speed as I ignore things like legibility, cohesiveness, or logic until, finally, late, late that night, I have a song.
A song so unlike anything I’ve ever written, ever produced.
A song about yearning.
Desire and need, and the uncertainty of it all.
Of fantasizing what it would be like to have someone all to myself, to feel their skin on mine.
To toe past the line of traditional friendship into something far more satisfying.
As I write, I pour all of the conflicted emotions into my words and the tension in my belly swirls and swirls, growing tighter and tighter until I’m nearly finished with the song.
It’s so far from what I normally write, so blatantly sexual and frustrated, that I can almost guarantee it won’t make it to the album, but it feels good to get a song out regardless, to feel my muse once more.
And as I fall asleep, satisfied by the fact that I finally got a song out, I don’t let my mind dwell on the fact that both times I’ve been able to write a song in the last six months have been after a night with Leo Sinclaire.