Page 82 of It Happened on a Sunday
I write it in my notebook, then go back to the chorus, determined to nail it down tonight. But the line won’t go away.
It was a Sunday when I met you, when the rain came pouring down.
Again, Sly appears in my head—only it’s not the Sly of today this time. It’s the Sly from the night of the Austin concert. A little charming, a little intense, all kind eyes and quick quips.
Because thinking about him makes my body ache in ways it hasn’t in a very long time, I focus on the melody again, playing it over in my head as I wait to see if more lines come to me.
They don’t. I don’t know if I should be grateful or disappointed about that, so I close my notebook and put my guitar away.But I’m still not tired—the adrenaline from the concert is still dancing through me. Well, that, and the energy from the most amazing first date I’ve ever had.
Because I can’t stop thinking about him and everything he made me feel in the park this afternoon, I grab my phone before I can second-guess myself and fire off thegot back to the hoteltext I promised Sly. I know his game isn’t until Sunday, but they have an early-morning fundraiser tomorrow, so I figure he’s probably asleep by now.
I tell myself I won’t be disappointed if he doesn’t answer.
It’s a dangerous feeling, this connection that is growing between us. It makes me nervous, because I can feel my walls threatening to crumble. But that’s not enough to make me back away from him. Not now, when every part of me feels like it’s coming alive. Not when it feels like something—someone—is worth the risk.
Me:Have a good time tomorrow
Admittedly, a generic text like that might not seem like much of a risk for anyone else. But for me—especially on top of our earlier exchange—it’s huge.
Because it is, and even knowing he’s probably asleep, I’m now obsessively checking my phone for an answer, I grab a water and the small plate of chocolate chip cookies that were waiting for me in my room after the concert and crawl into bed.
I try to remember what Pauline always tells me.Men in this business are like rhinestones, baby. They sure do sparkle at first, but a little use turns them cloudy mighty fast. Not to mention, if you get too close, the cheap ones can cut you to ribbons.
I’ve been cut before—damn near eviscerated, really—and the idea of voluntarily signing up for that again is anathema to me. Yet, when I think about Sly, something inside of me says thatmaybe this time will be different.
I bite into a cookie and wonder how Sly feels about crumbs in the bed. Minor annoyance or deal-breaker? Then, because I hate that I’m even thinking that far ahead when I could barely initiate a good night text, I put on an episode of one of my favorite TV series and try to lose myself in it while I scarf down two more cookies.
Right about the time I’m contemplating a fourth, my phone buzzes.
It’s embarrassing how quickly I pick it up.
Sly:Thanks. How was the concert?
Me:Why are you still awake? Don’t you have a fundraiser at like nine tomorrow morning?
Sly:I was hoping you’d text
My heart speeds up at his words, and I tell myself to cool it. A couple of kisses and a bunch of unfamiliar zings inside of me do not true love make.
Then why does just the memory of being held by him make my body feel so alive it’s painful?
Not nearly as painful as the vulnerability, though. It scares me so much that I nearly toss down my phone and turn out the light.
Nearly.
I shift a little, trying to get comfortable in my suddenly very uncomfortable body. But all that does is chafe my unexpectedly sensitive nipples against the fabric of my T-shirt. Which only adds to the empty, longing feeling in my core.
Damn it. There are just so many reasons opening myself up again is a bad idea—even to a guy like Sly.
Sly:You still there?
Me:Yeah, just trying to get comfortable
Sly:Sore after the concert?
Don’t do it, I warn myself, long seconds passing as my fingers hover over my phone’s keyboard.Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it.
Me:Not the kind of uncomfortable I’m talking about
