Chapter 16
Time was an odd thing when I was with Sloan—it went fast and slow all at once. Like a river that was calm and steady on the surface, but underneath the currents raged with an unseen force. I mean, it”d only been a few weeks, but it felt like we”d been together for ages. We just… fit. And when we didn”t fit, we discussed it and released old expectations by setting new ones. This whole thing made no sense to me because the rhythm we found with each other seemed too perfect to be real.
Yes, I had doubts about this situation-ship we”d agreed on. I had a hard time calling it a relationship when every relationship I”d ever been in came to an abrupt stop before now. The rain always brought the mud… but not with Sloan.
I swallowed hard, because the last time I felt this content, I promptly got served with divorce papers. That was two weeks after Dan and I had said, ”I do.”
But there had been signs with that marriage. We didn”t talk, hardly at all. Actually, we communicated more after he handed me the divorce papers than we”d ever done during the ”marriage.”
But that wasn”t this, and Dan wasn”t Sloan. Sloan wasn”t my first husband, either, or any of the other number of boyfriends I”d had through the years.
I shoved all of those thoughts deep, deep down and forced myself to remember that I had to live for today and the present.
Was this real? Did communicating the hell out of this marriage and laying out all expectations actually mean it would work?
Or was it only buying us slightly more time in the raft on the river of time? Were we only fooling ourselves, or was this real? And how did a person figure it out before anyone got hurt?
Those were the questions, weren”t they? Questions that didn”t have answers.
I took extra time with my makeup that morning since I planned to film a few more reels for social media. There was one hickey at the base of my neck that needed extra coverage, so I selected a green mock-turtleneck shirt to go with my black high-waisted pants. The ones with the pleated front and a little split at the ankles. The whole vibe was chic-mountain with cutesy flip-flops. Perfect for a musician on the rise.
My social media accounts continued to grow, and ”Slaya” became a trending hashtag.
I finished up and trotted down the stairs, pausing at the hall closet, which was mid-organization. Meaning it was currently a disaster but on the way to completion. This was my favorite part. Cleaning up the mess I”d made and proving to myself it wasn”t for nothing.
No Sloan around, but dang, I had a system for these things—and I knew the system—but with no idea of what the system entailed, Sloan must”ve thought I was bonkers.
In our last Salt and Pepper Negotiations, I assured him I would finish all organizational projects within twenty-four hours—barring any illness, natural disasters, or wildlife.
A Salt and Pepper Negotiation was what we called it when one of us needed to cover something important. That way, we both knew what was up and there was no guessing involved for either of us.
”Sloan?” I called his name, ready to apologize for the gigantic mess of the hall closet.
No reply, but a note taped to the coffee maker caught my eye:
Out of coffee.
Walked to town to grab a cup.
Will bring yours back.
- S
I laughed lightly. At nothing. I laughed at nothing and everything that had happened since we got margaritas in Vegas.
Colorado was absolutely not Vegas, though. This wasn”t the desert, and there were no flashing lights or pretend lakes.
Everything here was the real deal. I”d found that refreshing.
Mountain air was interesting, because with the fog that settled, it was wet and faded the edges of the landscape, but somehow, things still felt crisp. Awake and alive and happy.
I texted a jaunty good morning to my friends, asking for a check in. I got one thumbs up and one goose gif in reply.
Grabbing the guitar I”d had shipped in from Los Angeles, I pulled the strap over my shoulder and checked to ensure it was tuned. I hadn”t turned on my camera to record.
I always posted covers of already popular songs. But since I was alone, and the acoustics in this room were so damn good, I decided on the fly to try out one of my originals. Letting my hair spill over my shoulder, I worked on the melody that had been in my head since I came up with the lyrics.
Once I could nail the bridge, the rest of the song fell into place.
I don”t love you, but I”m yours.
You don”t need me, but you”re mine.
When I feel you, I know the truth.
In life, it”s those things that aren”t real
Those things that become how I feel.
I wanted the song to be raw and honest, but somehow, whenever I put pen to paper, it always felt like the chords weren”t quite right.
That”s why I stuck with the tried-and-true songs others wrote—those always worked.
But by myself in the big room, the usual worry about what others would think of my words fell away like a heavy coat sliding from my shoulders. I closed my eyes, lost in my music, and let the emotion pour.
I closed my eyes, the music flowed, and it was only me and the song. When I strummed the last chord, and soft applause broke the silence, I opened my eyes to find Sloan there, his expression one of pride.
”You wrote that?” Sloan”s voice was barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile moment we found ourselves in.
”Uh-huh. I”ve been…uh…working on trying something new,” I said, hastily putting my guitar to the side. ”Yay, coffee!”
He handed it over, letting his fingertips brush mine. We”d both discovered we enjoyed little touches, so we wove that into the fabric of our agreement.
Then he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss against my temple. I liked when he did that, so I should add that to our agreement, too. The next time we opened up for negotiations, anyway.
”I meant to apologize about the hall closet. I got tired and?—”
”You are well within the agreed-upon timeframe,” he said. ”And even if you weren”t, I won”t complain about being able to find towels.” He glanced at the guitar, then back at me. ”Your song was?—”
”Just a song.” I lifted the cup to my lips.
He sat next to me on the sofa. Not too close, but close enough that I could catch his scent and appreciate the way his lips moved under the beard.
I…uh…had many reasons for preferring the beard at this point. Most of them were inappropriate to bring up, but I”d also added keeping the facial hair to our agreement.
”You realize that, more than everyone I”ve ever met, you”re always moving?” he asked.
When we sat together like this, he lounged back and crossed an ankle over his knee. But today, he didn”t do that. No, he was all focused on me.
”Always moving?” I asked with a self-deprecating chuckle. ”Walking in circles, sure.”
”Don”t do that.” He shook his head, one of his fingers toying with the edge of my hair where it rested along my shoulder. ”Don”t put my wife down like that.”
”Oh, come on, you”ve known me for less than a minute.” I meant the words as a joke, but they didn”t work. Actually, they seemed to touch a nerve because he pursed his lips and glanced away.
”The only person to determine if you”re going forward or backward is you,” Sloan said in all seriousness. ”All movement is technically the same. Whether you run up the field or down, it”s all part of the journey. That journey is taking you forward, either way.”
”That all sounds very sage, but until you came into my life, I only found myself in the same spot over and over.” It was the truth. Always a new tour, always in the background. Taking a paycheck and then onto the next.
”And now, you”re moving forward.”
”I”m living in Vegas at night,” I said with a smile. I was, and it was amazing.
”Can I post this?” he asked, holding his phone for me to see. ”On my socials this time?” He handed over his phone, open to the video recording app.
”You recorded me?” I asked, taking the phone, my hands a touch shaky because I wasn”t certain I wanted to see what he”d filmed.
I was there, so I knew what had happened and how it went. I set the cup of coffee on the ottoman and stared at the still image of me on the screen with my guitar.
I didn”t love the idea of telling him no. But I disliked the idea of him posting my flop of a song more.
”Just look,” he suggested, nodding to the screen.
I pushed play.
The sun was shining behind me through the big windows, casting a golden glow over everything it touched as I sang the lyrics.
Funny that from this point of view—the view outside my head—they sounded amazing. The emotion came through so strongly, and the lyrics reverberated off the walls in a way that melded with the acoustic guitar, adding poignancy I hadn”t realized was there.
”They don”t sound like that in my head,” I said, peering closer at the screen.
The fits and starts and pauses as I sorted the bridge actually made the song more intimate. I glanced at Sloan, and his eyes filled with pride and admiration.
”Okay,” I decided on the spot. “You can post, but…gah…maybe not?” I ran my hand over my hair. ”I mean, I could do it again, and it could be better. Not so many stops and starts, you know?”
”Then it wouldn”t be Vegas at night,” he said.
Funny enough, I understood exactly what he meant. If I made it perfect, it would lose the perfection.
So, I nodded, bit my lip, and made myself say, ”Post it.”