Page 39 of My UnTrue Love
Johnny seemed to be the only man that Clem had ever been seriously involved with, so odds were high that she found him attractive. If Johnny pursued her romantically, it might rekindle her desire for the prick.
That just wasn’t gonna work for Bill.
“We shouldbothsteer clear of Johnny.” He started walking again, wanting her inside where it was cool and safe. “He don’t act near as nice as he used to.”
“I’ve noticed that, as well.” Clementine agreed, impressed with Bill’s perception. “It probably makes me a bad friend… But I don’t think I like Johnny much, anymore.”
“My fondness for him is at a low point, too.”
“I expected more from Johnny. I really did. He should be happy for you going out on your own, but he’s not. It’s like he believes you’re stealing from him or something.”
Bill lifted a shoulder. “Iamstealing from him.” He never lied to Clem. Never lied to anyone, if he could help it. Most times, the truth did the job just fine.
“No, youdeserveyour place in the spotlight, Bill. It’s not your fault that no one else’s talent can quite match up. You didn’t take anything from Johnny. It was always yours.”
“I tookyoufrom him. Sooner or later, he’ll come sniffing around, wanting you to go back to The Yellow Roses.”
Clem didn’t seem convinced. “I’m not leaving you.” She promised anyway, as if sensing he needed reassurance. She always could read him like a book. “I amyourmanager.”
“Exclusively.” Bill stressed. He wanted all of her attention, all of the time. If Clem wasn’t looking at him, he didn’t exist.
He didn’tneedher attention. He didn’t need anything. He justwantedher attention. It was a constant craving in his blood.
“Exclusively.” She agreed in a humoring tone. “In fact, that is why I came up here.”
“Came up herein sandals.” He muttered, keeping an eye out for scorpions. They tended to be nocturnal, but he was taking no chances. “You know better, Clementine.”
She pretended not to hear his complaint. “I have something that might inspire your music. I found it while I was unpacking and I wanted you to have it.” She reached into her pretty patchwork bag and came out with a journal-sized book. “This was my father’s. He wrote songs. None of them ever sold, but…” She shrugged and handed it to him. “Maybe his work will help you.”
Bill flipped through the hand-written volume, a frown creasing his brow. It was a notepad. A place where an artist hadscribbled ideas to himself and worked on unfinished projects. “You certain your pa would want me to look at this?”
“He died with his music unpublished. He’d want someone else to bring it to life.” She sounded very sure. “I’ve always hoped that I could hear it played, one day.”
“So why didn’t you give it to Johnny?”
“I don’t know. I guess…” She shrugged self-consciously. “I guess, I didn’t trust him to understand how much it means to me. Not like you will.”
Bill stared at her.
Clementine blushed again. “Anyway,” reaching over, she flipped towards the front of the book and found the messiest page, “this is his best one. It’s all jumbled, but it’s got the mostka-pow!I can tell.”
Bill read the title scrawled along the top margin.
“My Own True Love.”
Beneath it, lyrics and uneven rows of musical notes covered the paper, half of them crossed out and written again. He looked them over, trying to make sense of the fragments of tune. It was hard to focus on anything but that damn name.
“Coyotes are cursed not to have True Loves.” He muttered.
People thought Bill’s kind were thieves, but reallycoyoteshad been the ones robbed. They were the ones who could never find their destined mates. They were the ones left forsaken and howling at the lonely moon.
“Lots of peoplearen’tcursed and still never find their True Loves. They can be happy together. My parents weren’tTrue Loves, but they still chose each other.” She wrinkled her nose. “It’s always confused me why my father picked that title for the song.”
“It’s about longing.” Bill murmured, listening to the scattered chords in his head.
“Maybe Dad wrote it as a dreamy young man. Or maybe it was about a woman he loved, before my mother. Or maybe the lyrics just appeared in his imagination one day, and he thought they’d sell. I suppose we’ll never exactly know.” She gave a bittersweet smile. “No matter how much we love someone, there are always mysteries inside of them. That’s where the greatest art lives: In those shared mysteries between us.”
Bill ran a thumb over the chaotic page of smudged words. ...And he felt a tug. The same tug he’d felt when he saw Clementine for the first time. The sensation that something big would happen --something that would alter his steady, predictable future-- if he went forward.
