Track 6 Spend The Night #2
It was at this moment I remembered a prayer I prayed on my steps one day.
My parents were in the middle of a battle royale, blaming me and my siblings for everything and anything they could.
Screaming how neither of them wanted us anyway.
I felt so alone, so discarded. I prayed to anyone who would listen:
Dear God, or… anyone. If you’re real, please get me out of here…
“So… spend the night?” E’s adorable expression cast me out of the shadows of my mind.
I laughed at the abrupt change of pace. “I think I have to.”
He looked around the wet basement, his inebriated friends spread out on various surfaces. “Better come upstairs where it’s safe.”
“And dry,” I said, and he chuckled.
E walked me to his room, and it was just as I expected it to be.
It was neat and tidy with well-kept wooden furniture and a made bed to match.
The walls were a charcoal gray, and his comforter was black with dark gray plaid sheets.
One wall was covered in CDs and vinyl records, and he had a record player in the corner, next to his TV.
Another wall had posters taped to it—all were musicians from various eras, except for a Western one.
“John Wayne,” I said when I recognized the image.
He looked over and nodded to me from his dresser. “He’s the man. The Duke.”
I gave him a half smile. “He’s alright. I’m a Clint Eastwood girl myself.”
“Clint Eastwood over John Wayne?” Feigned annoyance hung in his tone.
“He’s the classic antihero!” I defended.
“Who likes the antihero over the real thing?”
“Um, like everyone?” I laughed.
“They do everything wrong!” He laughed with me.
I shrugged. “Maybe that’s their beauty. Loving their brokenness. Their twisted moral compass always misdirects them, yet somehow leads them to do the right thing anyway.”
E chuckled as he walked toward me, shaking his head. “You and your broken cowboys.”
“They’re not broken,” I teased. “They just carry their damage well.”
He leaned a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, as he looked at me. He let out a low chuckle. “You really are a Clint Eastwood girl.”
I arched a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His next words came out slow and deliberate, like he was circling something fragile. “It means you like your characters complicated. Distant. A little dangerous.”
“Maybe I just relate to them,” I said, folding my arms. “Maybe I like the ones no one else understands.”
He was only a foot away, eyes narrowing just slightly with a tiny hint of a smile. “Maybe it’s because that’s who you are.”
My breath hitched, and he continued. “You come off tough,” he said. “Like nothing touches you. Like you’ve got it all figured out—”
“I don’t,” I said, too quickly.
“I know.” His voice softened. “That’s what makes you the antihero, isn’t it? You’re not trying to be loved—you’re just trying to survive. And somehow, that makes people want to love you anyway.”
I looked at him, heart pounding in my chest, my breathing shallow and quick. “And what does that make you?”
He smiled faintly, but he didn’t answer.
I couldn’t look away. Because he wasn’t wrong. And I wasn’t sure if that scared me more than it moved me.
“Clint Eastwood never let anyone stay,” he said, his voice low, the playfulness gone.
“Maybe he never believed he deserved them to.”
E’s jaw tensed, and he swallowed. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s why you keep running.”
His words didn’t land like an accusation. They landed like truth—like something I already knew but didn’t want to hear out loud. I dropped my gaze, afraid that if I met his eyes again, he’d see too much. See me.
“I don’t mean to,” I whispered. “I don’t know how to stop.”
E stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat off his skin. Close enough that I could smell the faint scent of cedar and laundry soap clinging to his shirt. “You don’t have to stop all at once,” he said. “Just… don’t run from me.”
The ache in his voice nearly undid me. He was right. I had been running. Not overwhelmingly, but enough. I’d been denying things I knew were true, and I didn’t know how to stop.
“I don’t want to run,” I said, and I meant it. I didn’t want to hide away from everything I felt for him anymore.
“But you will.”
My heart squeezed in my chest. I looked up then, finally meeting his eyes, and saw something I wasn’t ready for—something fierce and patient and quietly breaking.
Maybe I was the antihero. The girl with too many shadows, too many exits, always mapped out. But right now, in this room filled with records and old movie posters and the only boy who’d ever seen past the act—I wanted to try. Even if it ruined me. Even if it ruined him.
He stepped back then, and the air instantly lost its heaviness.
I felt woozy, and I couldn’t tell if it was from the gallons of beer I had ingested or the intensity of the conversation we just had.
He went to his dresser and tossed me a T-shirt and a pair of navy plaid pajama pants with a light smile, and I knew we were back.
I held them up, looking them over as I smiled back at him.
“You wear pajamas?”
“No, but my mom always gets me a pair for Christmas, so I have a few.”
“That’s funny.”
He laughed. “She doesn’t think so. She’s always yelling at me to stop walking around in my underwear.”
An image of E walking around in nothing but his bare skin and boxer briefs flashed before my eyes.
I imagined his toned, tan body. The curve of his chest. The thick imprint on his briefs…
The heat that came over me was palpable, and I think he read my thoughts from across the room because they were written all over my face.
E cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh, you can sleep here. I’ll sleep on the couch.” He turned and started to head out, but I stopped him, suddenly courageous after our moment before.
“E?”
“Hmm?” he said, turning only his head to me, his hand still on the door.
I paused, my heart pounding loud enough for him to hear. “Stay with me?”
He froze. My stomach dropped like I was falling from three stories up. I watched his Adam’s apple take a steady dip as he swallowed. His eyes traveled down my body and up again before he said, “Okay.”
I climbed into his full-size bed, leaving enough space for him to lie beside me. The mattress dipped as he climbed in. He was still at first, like he wasn’t sure what I needed or how long my courage would last. I wasn’t sure either.
We were quiet—not awkwardly, but cautiously. Unsure what was safe to say, if anything at all.
Finally, I broke the silence. “Smokey Robinson,” I said, turning my head toward him. “Favorite song of the three.”
He smiled, and it was beautiful and sad all at once. He readjusted and placed his arms behind his head before he said, “You Really Got a Hold on Me.”
My heart sank deep into my soul, and I swallowed hard.
It wasn’t a deep cut. It was a classic, and I knew the song well.
It wasn’t solo Smokey Robinson; it was his band, The Miracles.
It was a song that sounded sweet but was actually a cry of love and frustration—about a person’s power over you, whether you liked it or not.
“That’s cheating,” I said, grinning the heaviness away. “That’s not even on a Smokey Robinson album.”
He smiled, that crooked smile I loved so much. “Fine.” He looked to the ceiling, thinking of a new answer, and I studied his perfect profile. The straight bridge of his nose. The dip before his lips. His tongue peeked out to wet them, and I felt my core tighten.
“Just to See Her,” he said, his eyes locking back with mine, and I visibly released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. This song—this song—was it. It was everything I needed him to say.
“Your turn,” he said, but I needed a minute.
I needed to sit in that space as I ran through Smokey’s lyrics in my head.
Doesn’t she know it… I tried hard not to show it… Can’t I make her realize that she really needs me again… I want to see her… just to see her… Hold her, see her just to touch her… If I could only see her again…
I blinked slowly, tired and buzzed, full of every emotion I couldn’t name. Of memories I hadn’t meant to revisit. Of a love I was still trying to hide deep in the corners of my heart.
“Tracks of My Tears,” I finally whispered, and when I looked at him, he was already watching me—like he knew. Like he’d guessed before, I said a word.
He nodded once, solemn and soft. “Yeah,” he said. “That one makes sense.”
He didn’t correct me like I corrected him for picking a Miracles song. He just accepted how fitting it was and let it go, like he did everything else.
For a second, I hated that it fit so well. Because that song wasn’t about joy. It was about pretending. About wearing a smile so no one sees the ache behind it. I hated how much that was the story of us.
He reached for my hand, resting his fingers lightly over mine, like even now he wasn’t sure he was allowed. But he didn’t let go. And neither did I.
We didn’t say anything else. We didn’t have to.
I closed my eyes and didn’t open them again, afraid of what I’d find in his. Afraid to see the ache. The apology. The love we weren’t supposed to feel that was written all over them. It was quiet, but for once, it wasn’t lonely, and that night, it would be enough.
I guess that’s how love is sometimes. Not loud or wild or screaming to be heard. Sometimes it’s just… quiet. A whisper in the dark. A kiss on the forehead after you’ve fallen asleep. A favorite song that still plays long after the record has stopped spinning.
If you’re not careful, you might miss it. Might let it slip right through your fingers and call it almost, or call it nothing. But deep down, where your heart meets your soul, you’ll know it was everything—
You just let it go.