12. Garrett
12
Garrett
H ours later, we’ve migrated to the floor, surrounded by scattered notebook pages with old lyric ideas and the empty food containers we got delivered from the pub. The truth is, she has enough here for an album. A good album, but obviously she doesn’t see it that way. She doesn’t need me; she never really has. Not with the move and definitely not with this.
But I want her to need me here.
It’s been so long since I’ve talked about music like this—playing is one thing, creation is completely different. I want more of this electric hum in my veins even if it’s for a short while.
“No, this one,” I say, examining the lyrics on one of the pages. “It’s pretty much the same as ‘Better Not Say’.”
“So, you really have listened to my music?” she purrs and plants a hand near my thigh before leaning closer. The glint in her eye tells me that her sultry tone is as intentional as it is artificial.
“I was curious.” True, but I also like it. Her voice. Her words. There’s this breathy way she sings the word wisteria that scratches an itch in my brain that I’ve played over again just to get enough. “From how I see it, you write about things.”
“Ahh, opposed to writing about nothing and screaming into the void.” She nods.
“Yeah, but sometimes it feels like that doesn’t it?”
Putting music out there is a bit like hoping that the deepest parts of you are worth listening to. Screaming, tell me you feel this too. That I’m not alone.
“Yeah.” She looks around for something specific in the mess of paper. “If only I could find this one notebook I haven’t seen in ages. Not since,” she pauses and hurt pinches her face, “well, for a while. It has all this stuff I nearly put in my first album.”
“You'll be fine without it,” I promise driven by a sudden need to comfort her.
“I guess I have to be.” She sags, putting weight on the hand next to my leg, causing the tips of her fingers to brush against me. It’s so fucking insignificant, but being alone with her like this seems to heighten my awareness of the smallest things.
The way she rolls her shoulders when she thinks she’s messed up. How she bites at her lip when she’s particularly proud of something, but waiting for approval. She’s not just a pleasant yet sporadic notion anymore. All her parts are coming into excruciating focus. And I don’t want to look away.
I inch away as I put the paper down then start to make a stack out of the nearby pages to occupy myself.
“I think we should call it a day.” I pull my phone out and pretend to check the time. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, tomorrow,” she says.
I gather my stuff and walk back from Evelyn’s in the dark, using the beam of my flashlight to guide my way. I’m careful not to flash it up toward the windows in case it could wake Alina. Caution is the same reason why I do my best to gingerly ease open the ancient door as I enter the house so my return isn’t broadcasted from the wood creaking or the hinges squealing.
“I never thought I’d see the day where I’d get to find you sneaking back after seeing a girl,” Alina says from behind me, and I practically jump out of my skin, slamming the door behind me in the process.
“Shit,” I hiss, partly out of shock and partly because my foot rams into the wall sending a bolt of pain up my leg. I finish locking the door and then swivel to face Alina. She’s dressed in a floor length silk robe and has a cup of water in her hand that she slowly draws to her lips. “I’m not sneaking. I’m just being courteous.”
“Being courteous, I didn’t know that’s what they’re calling it nowadays. Make sure to call her when the sun is out. I’ve had the best night of my life with a man and then he didn’t call and I immediately took him off my list.”
“We’re not sleeping together.”
Alina huffs. “A missed opportunity. I set it up so well and you blew it.”
“I’m not talking about this with you. I’m going to bed.”
“Sex could be good for you. A distraction,” Alina continues her pestering. Sure, tonight was the first time in weeks I haven’t been fixated on leaving. But anything more besides a bit of songwriting between Evelyn and me is not even a possibility, no matter how appealing the thought of it is.
“Goodnight, Alina,” I say, doing my best to shut down a conversation that no one wants to have with their nosy seventy-year-old neighbor. I know if I let Alina go on any longer she’ll tell me far too much about her own exploits with scrapbooks used as visual aids.
I head to the guest room and sleep claims me the moment my head hits the pillow.