45. Opal
FORTY-FIVE
Opal
I blink my eyes, adjusting them to the unexpected darkness. I guess I dozed off for more than a few minutes, it’s pitch black outside now.
The only light in my room is from the small lamp on my desk. My eyes open wider and I flinch a bit when I realize Alex is sitting there, hunched over at my desk in my pink office chair that looks a bit too small for him. His long hair is covering his face, and it looks like he’s writing something on a piece of paper.
Anxiousness floods through my chest. My journals. They’re all sitting in the drawer of that desk, inches away from him. He could’ve easily read everything in any of them, or all of them, considering how long he’s been in my room now.
He probably wouldn’t do that. He’s always respected my privacy in the past, and there’s a large possibility that he’s not even interested anyway. I have a few poems I wrote stuck to my wall, but none of those are very deep or personal, not like the ones hidden away in the drawer.
“What are you doing?” I croak, sleepiness still evident in my voice.
He flinches, pushing his hair back as he looks up at me. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I was just…” he looks back down at the piece of paper in front of him and my heart rate ticks up a bit. Is he reading my writing? “I was writing down some lyrics. I was trying to get them out before I forgot them. I’ll leave now.”
“Where’d you get the paper?”
His eyes bounce between the paper in his hand and me, his brow wrinkled. “The notepad on your fridge.”
Relief floods my veins when I realize it isn’t my writing in front of him, it’s his own. I just have to hope he didn’t go digging through the drawer at any point during his visit. “It’s fine.” I blink a few times. “How long was I asleep?”
“About four hours.”
Now I probably won’t be able to get back to sleep tonight, great . “So…a new song, huh?” I grab a ponytail holder from my side table before pulling my wild, frizzy hair up into a bun.
He glances at the paper again. “Yeah. I haven’t written one in a long time, it just came to me, I figured I might as well try to write it down real quick before I forgot the words. That was two hours ago, though, and I’m still messing with it. I didn’t realize how late it was.”
The edges of my lips tick up slightly. If there’s one thing I miss about our friendship, it’s our mutual love of writing. No one else has ever understood my need to write like he did. Non-writers consider writing a hobby, but writers understand it’s much more than that.
“It’s okay.” Maybe I should be annoyed that he’s still here, but I’m not. I’m kind of relieved. Being all alone in this house would feel strange. I don’t think of it as my house, it’s Mamaw’s house, and without her here it feels weirdly empty. “Do you want some food? I’m starving, I’m gonna make something.”
He blinks at me twice, a non-believing look on his face. “Uh, yeah. That sounds great.” He stands up, folding the paper and shoving it in his back pocket.
I slowly crawl out of bed, realizing I feel a bit sweaty and gross. Night sweats are apparently another lovely symptom of pregnancy that no one ever told me about. I could use a shower, but I’m definitely not doing that while he’s here.
I guess I’ll just keep at least six feet of space between us. That’s probably a good idea anyway.
Sliding my feet into a pair of soft slippers, I pad my way into the kitchen. After a quick evaluation of the pantry, I realize there aren’t many options beyond basic staples. White rice it is, I guess.
“So, will I get to hear this new song soon?” I ask as I start boiling a pot of water.
“I’m not sure. It’s been a while since I wrote one, it could take a minute before I add music to the words.”
“But you always did it all at once?” My brow wrinkles as I glance over at him.
He looks a bit confused, and I wonder if I’ve said too much. Is it weird that I remember that?
He and I would spend hours writing together, and part of his process was always finding which chord progression matched up with the words he’d written down. I guess it makes sense that he would do it differently now, though.
“Yeah…” he scratches the back of his neck. He looks a bit nervous, almost embarrassed. “I don’t write much anymore, honestly.”
“You don’t?” My head tilts.
“I haven’t written a whole song in almost a year.”
I nod, even though I have no idea which song he’s referring to. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He shrugs. “I kind of assumed you would’ve noticed, but I don’t know why you would.”
“I haven’t listened to any of your music since we broke up,” I say before placing the lid on my pot and turning the stove down to simmer. I turn around, leaning against the stove, and he’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, his mouth in a straight line.
“That’s kind of ironic. The girl I’ve written all of my songs for hasn’t even heard most of them.”
For me? It’s hard to imagine he was still writing songs for me after we broke up. After he left, even though I knew many of his first songs were about me, I no longer felt like they were. I felt like they were for the world. For the girls in the crowd at his shows that were singing along. Definitely not for me.
“I was afraid to listen to them,” I worry my lip between my teeth, shrugging.
His brows arch. “Why?”
“I thought you’d probably be writing songs about someone else, and I didn’t want to be reminded of the fact that you’d moved on.” I remember the song I heard him playing at Hondo’s that night, part of me wondered if he was singing about me or someone else. Even though I wanted to pretend like I didn’t care, the thought of him writing those words about someone else destroyed me.
He chuckles a humorless laugh, and somehow the sound sends tingles down my spine. His eyes are dark and filled with regret as they stare straight into my soul. “Trust me, if you heard any of them you’d know I never moved on.”
The intensity of his stare makes me gulp, and I have to force myself to turn around and check on my rice.
He clears his throat. “I can order us some food, if you want.”
I glance at the clock above the stove. “It’s already 9:30. Nothing in this town delivers this late.”
“There’s always pizza.”
My stomach growls when he says pizza and suddenly my rice sounds like the least appetizing food ever. Not that I can’t fix it up with some soy sauce or something, but…it’s not pizza. “Are you sure?”
“Opal, you’re growing my kid in there, it’s my job to make sure you’re getting enough to eat. Not that pizza is the most nutritious meal, but it’s better than plain rice.”
I’m so tempted to keep up my sassy front, tell him that I’m capable of taking care of myself. But truthfully, he’s right, and it’s sweet that he actually cares.
Part of me is tired of fighting my feelings towards him, I’m tired of pretending to be independent. I’m tired of acting like I don’t care about him or miss him. But it’s the only way I know how to protect my heart.
“Okay, if you don’t mind.” My lips tip up into a small grin.
“Thank god.” He pulls his phone out and starts tapping the screen. “Still like mushrooms and pepperoni?”
“Yep.”
Thirty minutes later our pizza arrives, and I don’t even try to hide how ravenously hungry I am. I’ve hardly eaten all day aside from some lousy hospital food.
“Thanks for the food,” I say after I’m fully sated and laying on the couch, my feet kicked up on the ottoman. “Even though that pizza is gonna give me the world’s worst heartburn.”
He smiles, stuffing his hands into his pockets. I expect him to sit beside me, but he stands across the room like he’s about to leave. I don’t know why he wouldn’t, it’s late and he’s probably exhausted after the long day we had. But for some reason, I still don’t really want him to.
“I guess I’ll head home,” he nods toward the door.
“You’re finished writing that song, I guess?” It sounds a lot more desperate out loud than it did in my head. Like I’m trying to find a reason to make him stay even longer.
“More or less,” he shrugs. He looks around the room a bit awkwardly, probably because he just wants to get out of here. I’m about to tell him goodbye until he opens his mouth again. “Do you want to hear what I have so far? I mean…if you feel like listening.”
“I thought you said you hadn’t come up with chords for it?”
“I might’ve thought about some while eating my pizza. I’ll have to grab my guitar and make sure they sound right out loud. Maybe you can tell me if it sounds like shit.”
“I guess I could do that,” I grin. If there’s one thing I can say for sure about Alex, it’s that I know the song won’t sound like shit. He’s always been unbelievably talented at writing music.
“Be right back, let me go grab my guitar.” He’s out the door before I can respond, and for some reason I feel strangely nervous, but also excited.
This isn’t weird, nor is it romantic, I tell myself. It’ll be just like old times, before we ever started dating, when I’d listen to him play guitar and I’d sit beside him doing my own hobby.
Like friends. We can be friends, right? I mean, we might as well be, we’re going to have to be civil once this baby gets here.
The front door creaks open and he appears in the doorway, his guitar strap slung over his neck.
“Alright, just give me a few minutes to work it out and then I’ll sing it for you.” His eyes dance over the crinkled paper from earlier as he strums a few chords. “I’m nervous.”
My brows arch. “What? Why?”
“You haven’t listened to any of my music in a long time.”
“So?”
He shrugs. “I want you to like it.”
I rub a hand over my stomach. “Yeah, I am a pretty harsh critic.”
He peeks up at me, smiling. “You were my very first fan, I’d be pretty ashamed if I let you down.”
“Pfft, fan? You make me sound like a groupie or something.” I roll my eyes.
“Definitely not a groupie,” he shakes his head. “Alright, you ready?”
“So ready.”
He starts picking at the strings, and a melancholy, bluesy sound fills the room. It’s different from what I expected, but I like it.
You always were my saving grace
I’m sorry that it had to go this way
All my love must go to waste
I’m leaving here a disgrace
You’re the one that didn’t leave so don’t talk about mistakes
I never made one this bad, I never fucked up like that
How come you love me more when I’m away?
My heart is in my throat when he plays the last chord. He’s always been an incredible writer, and I expected to be impressed, but I wasn’t expecting to be blown away. Hearing him sing those lyrics, knowing they’re about me, it does something weird to me.
I communicate through writing, I always have. I guess you could even say it’s my love language. And I know that music is his.
It feels like some tiny part of my heart has been healed by hearing that song. Like he was able to tell me something that wouldn’t have ever been expressed by words alone.
“It needs some more work,” he finally says after moments of silence hang between us.
“I liked it.” Our eyes meet and I feel a tiny shift in the air. Some kind of unspoken understanding.
“Thanks.” One side of his lips tip upward, causing his dimple to appear. “It’s getting late…”
“Yeah,” I nod. I’m still not tired, and I don’t really want him to leave, but it doesn’t feel right asking him to stay even longer. “Thanks for everything you did today.”
He places his hand on my knee, but quickly brushes it away. “Of course. Let me know how Mamaw is doing tomorrow.” He stands up and starts walking toward the door, I awkwardly follow behind him, still wishing I could come up with another valid reason to make him stay longer.
“I didn’t expect you to step in and help me like that. I really do appreciate it,” I say.
“We’re family now, Opal. That’s what family does.” His tired eyes stare into mine as we hover in the doorway. “Goodnight.”
I step back, allowing him to pass by me and walk out the door. “Goodnight.”