Page 111 of It Happened on a Sunday
(1:43 AM)Sly:I meant so I could see your face!
(1:43 AM)Sly:But now that you bring it up…what are you wearing?
(11:43 PM)Sloane:Ratty pajamas and a head full of curlers
(1:44 AM)Sly:Ooooh, very sexy
My FaceTime app rings while I’m still waiting for her reply, and I nearly drop my phone in my quest to answer it as quicklyas possible.Real smooth, Sly. Real smooth.
I manage to swipe it open, and there she is, right in front of me.
My heart jolts at the sight of her sitting cross-legged with a black acoustic guitar next to her on the bed. She looks so fucking gorgeous in her little black pajama set, with her red hair tumbling in waves over her shoulders.
“You lied about the curlers.”
She grins. “I’ve got to keep you on your toes somehow.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem for you.” I nod to the guitar. “What were you playing?”
She doesn’t answer right away, but her cheeks turn that soft pink that gets to me every time. “Just a song I’m working on,” she finally says.
“What’s it about?”
She looks at her guitar instead of me when she answers. “I don’t know yet.”
“How does writing work for you?” I ask as I lean back against the couch, getting comfortable. “I’ve been wondering if the music comes first or the lyrics?”
This time Sloane takes so long to answer that I start to wonder if I said something wrong. Especially when she lets out a long sigh.
“You don’t have to—” I start.
“It depends,” she answers at the same time. “Usually I start with a couple of lyrics and an idea of what I want it to be about, but this one started with the melody popping into my head.”
Her fingers strum over the strings. She only plays a few chords, but they burrow inside me, make my heart drum against my rib cage. “I love that. Is it for your new album?”
She shakes her head, and this time when she smiles, it’s so sad that it has me sitting right back up. “There is no new album.”
“Well, notnow. I meant later, whenever you get some downtime to write—”
“I don’t know, Sly. I haven’t written anything in a long time.” She sinks in on herself. “I just don’t hear the music these days.”
“Oh, corazón.” My heart breaks. I’ve been throwing a ball since I was five years old. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. I can’t imagine how I would feel if the ability just disappeared. Getting injured is one thing, but just losing the act I love most in the world? Just having it ripped away from me when I need it most? I can’t imagine what that feels like. “I’m so sorry. What can I do?”
“There’s nothing to do except keep trying.” Her fingers dance over the strings again, playing the same chords from earlier.
“That really is beautiful,” I tell her softly.
“It’s you,” she whispers.
The words hit me like the Lightning’s entire defensive line. “What? Sloane—”
“Umm, I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Wait, please—”
But she’s already gone.
Tuesday, 10/7
