CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX COEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
COEN
We find a last minute flight back to Wyoming. She’s exhausted once we get to the gate. I set her up with our things and go find a gift shop, grabbing a blanket, some snacks, and headphones for her. When I come back, she leans in and kisses me, giving me a sleepy smile of appreciation.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I sink down beside her, realizing how good it feels to take care of her. For so long, it was just me. She slips the headphones into her ears and sinks against my side. The pink sweatsuit her mom gave her swallows her up. I wrap my arm around her, stroking her shoulder through the soft fabric.
I haven’t felt this hopeful in so damn long.
Or this at peace.
There’s a long road ahead, figuring out how this changes my life and my career.
Maybe I should take a longer break once Mason’s album is fully done.
I might kick around those songs I wrote.
Hit the Road, Cowboy was something special.
I could tell when I penned the title. This might be my best work to date.
We board on time and take off. She slips her hand from her sleeve and winds her fingers through mine. I stroke her knuckles with my thumb.
“Would you really build a studio at the ranch?” she asks.
“We have to figure things out with your dad first,” I say. “But if you’re willing to take a chance on me, baby, I’m all in on you.”
She sighs and pulls her hood up, nestling her head back against my upper arm.
She’s been doing that a lot. I like it, more than I can even say.
The plane skims off the runway, and we’re headed out west. It doesn’t take long for her to start snoring softly.
I wonder if she knows she snores. I love the sound, the feeling of her breathing at my side.
I wonder if it scares her how quickly we happened.
It doesn’t scare me.
I’ve never been sure of anything, but I’m pretty damn sure of this. Working carefully, I ease the notebook from my pocket and open it in my lap. There isn’t much space left, but I find a bit on the back page. My pen isn’t in my pocket. It must have fallen out during security.
I lean across the aisle to a middle age man reading a book and tap his arm.
“Hey, um, you got an extra pen I can borrow?” I ask.
He turns, and his eyes widen.
“Holy shit, are you Coen Taylor?” he says.
I nod, giving him a smile. “Yeah, that’s me.”
He sits bolt upright, then sees Sabrina sleeping at my side, and sinks back. “Sorry, don’t mean to be loud. Sure, you can have a pen. Can I get a signature?”
I don’t mind signatures. Pictures, not the biggest fan of, but signatures are fine.
“Yeah, yeah, of course,” I say.
He digs out a chewed up Bic ballpoint and passes it over. He flips over his book, a copy of East of Eden, and turns it to an empty page at the back. Leaning over, I sign it quickly.
“Thanks,” he says. “Sorry, I don’t mean to bother.”
I pause. This feels different.
“Hey, it’s no bother. Really.” I sink back. “Thanks for the pen.”
“You keep it,” he says, flipping open his book again. “Then I can tell everybody I gave Coen Taylor my pen on a plane once.”
We both laugh, and the flight attendant appears to pass out coffee and stale pretzels. I take a couple bags and two cups of coffee, popping both our trays down. Sabrina stirs, sitting up and pushing back her hood.
“Snacks,” I say.
“Someday, you’ll have to fly us first class,” she yawns.
I have some of the acrid coffee. “Never flown first class.”
“Seriously?”
She turns, forehead creasing. I shake my head.
“I’m never comfortable on planes, so I figured it wasn’t worth it.”
She shakes her head, tearing open her pretzels. “God, I love plane snacks. I used to hide mine and take them off the plane when I was little.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’ll buy you a whole box of plane snacks if you want.”
She shakes her head. “No. Then they’re not special anymore.”
We finish our food and coffee in silence.
She’s out like a light again, and that leaves me time to think with my notebook in front of me.
The man to my left who recognized me didn’t bother me much, not the way it used to.
Just a couple months ago, I walked around with my head down, dreading the familiar sound of someone realizing who I am.
It’s embarrassing; it makes me feel like I have a target on my chest. I’m never angry with the people, though. They’re good people, just excited.
It just…bothers me.
Today, I feel grounded. It doesn’t bother me much at all.
The soft rush of the plane whirs on. I pick up the chewed on pen and start scribbling. Just like they used to, the words start flowing.
And they flow on and on, until there’s no paper left.