Page 34 of Best Served Cold

“I know that. No one word could explain you. So why do you want other people to see you as something you’re not?”

Is that what I’ve been doing? The hollow forming in my stomach suggests he might be right.

“I want them to know I’ve changed. That I think of other people before myself.”

His hand brushes my arm with a soft caress, sending ripples of sensation through me before he pulls away. “It’s nice that you want to think of other people, Sophie. It means you’re a better person than most, but there’s nothing wrong with letting people know you have an emotional range. If you don’t…it’s like listening to a singer who can only hit the high notes.”

“Everyone likes Mariah Carey,” I say stiffly. “She’s the queen of pop.”

He laughs. “Sure.Everyonelikes her. Check out the comment section for ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You’ on YouTube.”

“You should take notes from her. So many of your songs are angry. People enjoy being happy. They like things they can sing along to.”

I expect him to storm off, the way Jonah would if someone said something he didn’t like. But instead a slow smile forms on his face. “You’ve been listening to my music.”

I shrug self-consciously. “You know what they say. Know thy enemy.”

“We’re not enemies, Soph,” he says thickly, the sound of my nickname sending a shiver through me. It’s just that he didn’t ask to use it, I rationalize. He should have.

I hold his gaze before finally admitting the truth. “No, we’re not enemies. Did you write all of those songs yourself?”

“Some of them. My buddy writes with me sometimes.”

I nod. “They’re so…sad. The ones that aren’t pissed-off.”

His smile is sadder this time, regretful, backlit by the soft, warm lighting from the rear of the building. “I get stuck in the low registers sometimes, and you’ve glued yourself to the high ones. But your friend Dottie was right earlier. We’re nothing without our pasts, Sophie. I don’t know what happened to you, but whatever it was, it made you who you are. It’s what got you here, to this moment. You’d be a different person if it hadn’t shaped you.”

“A better one,” I say, the words bitter to the taste. “I wouldn’t have lost everything.”

He smiles at me, but there’s still sadness beneath it. “Careful there, Soph. You sound like a sad song. But I’ll let you in on a secret. People might like singing along to the happy songs in their cars, but it’s the angry and sad ones they remember. If you let people see all of you, they’re not likely to forget it.”

I take a half step toward him without meaning to. Without really knowing whether I want to shove his arm or…

I don’t know. I’m tipsy. Maybe even a little drunk. And he’sunexpected. Normally, I’m not drawn to chaos. If you don’t know what’s going to happen, then everything can go wildly, horribly wrong, especially if you have haywire luck. But it’s like I’m under a spell…

A warm breeze cascades hair into my face and rustles my skirts, reminding me again that I’m in a wedding dress.Mywedding dress, which I’ll never wear for real. My silver lining was made of tinfoil attached with a glue stick—the kind of craft I never would have rolled out if I’d managed to open my center.

I feel like the fool I’ve been and tears form in my eyes. I’m mortified, my gaze skating to those packed sardine tables soclose to us, but if anyone was watching us, they’ve lost interest. My attention is drawn back to Rob as he reaches out and brushes the tear away with his callused fingers. There’s an entreaty in his eyes, and I have to wonder if he’s one of those men who has an aneurysm whenever a woman cries in front of him.

“You could tell me what happened, if you like,” he says, cocking his head, the ends of his hair brushing the collar of his T-shirt. “I’d keep it to myself. And I’m not just asking because I want to have something Jonah doesn’t.”

“But would you write a sad or angry song about it?” I ask.

He smiles. “Any resemblance to real people, places, or things is accidental.”

“‘Oh Brother’ is about Jonah, right?”

One side of his mouth lifts in a lopsided smile that would probably make his female fans swoon. “I’ll never tell, but the title might give it away. If you’re a woman who pays attention to such things.”

I pause, considering the possibility of telling this man my secret. It would feel good to let it out, and I can tell that he would listen, really listen, in the way so few people do.

I even open my mouth to do it, but then I glance down and see a penny lying heads down. Bad luck.

I point to it. “They’re bad luck when they’re like that.”

He gives me a disbelieving look. “You genuinely think a penny that’s face down is bad luck?”

Feeling miserable and stupid, I nod. “If you have bad luck, you become familiar with the signs.”

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