Page 53 of Rival Hearts

I stared at her for a beat, unsure. “We’re done talking about the other thing?” I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

“About how you stole my virginity? Yeah, I’m over it. Also, I’m drunk. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell I would have saidanyof this otherwise. Can we play the game where we pretend this conversation didn’t happen? It seems to be one of our favorites.”

“I’m getting kinda tired of that one.”

“Shame.” Maggie pursed her lips.

“You going to be sick?”

“Nope, just thinking about what a bad idea this was.”

I took in her furrowed brow, and the way her eyes kept shifting as she analyzed whatever was bouncing around her head. Overthinking what she’d said would end up driving a wedge between us. Whether or not it was smart, I didn’t want distance between us, not anymore. I wanted to figure out a way to make amends.

“Watching me write a song would make you happy?”

Surprise registered on her face. “Can you? Does it work like that? Can you switch it on? I know it used to, or it seemed like it used to, work like that. But you said you don’t write for yourself much anymore.”

Her babbling was adorable. I smiled and wished she was close enough to touch. Already, I missed the connection, the intimacy that shrouded us as soon as we got close. Utterly astonishing how quickly my emotions were spiraling out of control.

Trent. Ihadto remember our deal.

Turning back to the keyboard, I played the opening notes of a song which had been dancing at the edges of my consciousness for the last week.

“That’s pretty,” she said.

“Bit of a ballad.”

“A love song.”

“Something like that.” I played for a while, feeling it out and writing down notes when I thought I’d found something that worked.

“What’s the secret?” she asked.

I glanced over my shoulder. She was flopped in the beanbag, her head tilted toward the ceiling. I loved the sight of her in this house, so relaxed and at ease…even if it had taken several beers to get her there. “To what?”

“Writing a good song.”

I turned back to the keyboard and played the opening notes from a few of the songs I’d written recently. “For me, the music comes first. Different people write different ways. That’s my way. If I can get the music to be something which wells up in people, makes it easy for them to get swept away, it’ll sell.” I chuckled. “Even if the lyrics make no sense.”

“That’s when you write for other people?”

“Yeah.”

“What about your songs? The ones for you.”

I paused my fingers on the keys, and I rolled my shoulders. This bench wasn’t particularly comfortable for songwriting. It was meant for collaborating, for having someone sitting next to me, not across the room. “Beyond the music, at least if I’m writing for myself, it’s the feeling behind the lyrics. When an emotion needs to come out. When the overflowing happensinme.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

I kept my back to her when I admitted, “Almost never.” Not anymore.

There was a heavy silence, and I was tempted to look at her. I wasn’t sure if I’d like what I’d see on her face.

“It must make you sad,” she whispered.

“Sometimes,” I agreed. I played a few random notes which served no purpose other than to break the melancholy mood between us. “But I’m well paid either way.”

If I kept busy enough, I didn’t have time to think about what I was missing. Everything she’d said played in my mind while I continued to work out the melody. How did Trent and Maggie not hate me? I’d gotten so many things wrong for so long.

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