Page 28 of Just Trouble

Of course, I want a hook-up—I’m still human—but I’m thinking about more than that. I’m pretty sure that once with Daph might not be enough. She’s got layers of secrets, and though I generally don’t worry about unraveling anyone’s mysteries, she’s different.

Her kiss was different. It gave and it took. It hinted. It definitely enticed. She met me halfway and led me on. We were in it together.

I like that.

A lot.

So I’m awake, wondering a perilous and unfamiliar thought.

What if the songs are true?

It’s a crazy notion, one I’ve never considered before, but it’s persistent in the way that unexpected insights tend to be.

Could this be what we write songs about? (Allthe songs.) I’ve written a bucket of them myself, maybe out of yearning, maybe out of optimism. I don’t think I ever really believed in love and forever, but what if itisa real possibility?

That’s a gamechanger.

It’s certainly enough to give your world a hard shake.

What if you can fall in love with someone who turns out to be your partner and your lover both? What if eighty-four million love songs are true?

It should be too terrifying a prospect to be given serious consideration.

But I can’t stop thinking about it.

That kiss.

Maybe Daph’s The One.

I can’t believe this thought has even come into my head, but I can’t shake it. Taylor was the only who believed in kismet, that there was one true love out there for everyone, that paths would cross when the moment was right for both. I always thought that was nonsense. Maybe wishful thinking.

What if he was right?

I can’t help thinking about a love song, the ballad Taylor wrote that was our finale at every show, the one that ached with yearning, the one that was so transcendent that women stormed the stage, wanting all we had to give. The song was what brought them to their feet. Its sentiment brought out the cigarette lighters in the sea of darkness—that was Taylor’s interview confession, that he loved to see the lights. After that, we sold branded battery-powered lights by the thousands before every show. It was magical to look out and see them all swaying in time to the music. I sang that song thousands of times and it always felt new.

I hum it to myself in the darkness, unable to stop wondering if its words might be true.

It seems infinitely more probable that I’ve lost my mind.

But what if I haven’t?

What if I’m in the right place at the right time to have my dream—the one I didn’t even realize I had—come true?

It’s no wonder I can’t sleep.

In the morning,I’m right on time. I’m wearing my last clean shirt, the one with our band logo across the chest. I always liked this one, since it has silhouettes of each of us cut out of the block letters. I’m in the upright of the M serenading the microphone, Taylor is in the B with his guitar, Brent is in the D bent over his bass and Zach is triumphantly waving his drumstick in the K. The shirt is black, the letters white.

When I arrive at the law office, the receptionist has the paperwork for me to sign. She sits me down in a small conference room and I start reading. Never sign anything without reading it and understanding every single word. I can hear Daph talking to someone in the office with the closed door. Her dad, undoubtedly. The Honda is parked out front beside the Mercedes sedan that I saw outside his house. There are more papers to sign, contracts to read, funds to transfer.

When they emerge, her dad is polite but distant. A gracious gentleman and I can see where Daph got some of her good looks. He’s not out to make friends with me, but then if some dickweed had cheated on my beloved only daughter and effectively jilted her, I’d be giving the side-eye to a whole generation of guys, too, particularly any who were in her proximity.

Daph is glacial. I guess I deserve that, but it’s not like I can explain as her dad and his receptionist circle around. Just before noon, her dad leaves to have lunch with Patrick while Daphheads to Havelock to finish up the title transfer. I thought they did all that online, but apparently not when you’re in a hurry. The receptionist, Mrs. Prescott, firmly ushers me out the door and locks it behind us, marching down the street after a curt nod to me.

She must go home for lunch.

My day yawns before me, devoid of commitments or errands. I’m supposed to come back to get keys etc. but not until the morning. I wander down Queen Street, impatient and hungry. I’m tempted into the thrift shop, and pleased to discover a lot of vintage T-shirts for sale. There are more than a few in my size and it’s tough to choose. I pick the purple one with Queen’s logo in silver across the chest, the Rolling Stones one in red, the INXS one in a blue so dark it’s almost black. I also found a great pair of running shoes that look new for a crazy cheap price. That they’re in my size means they should be mine.

The tattooed and pierced girl behind the counter is singing along to Tracy Chapman and doesn’t appear to recognize me.

---