Page 55 of Paint the Town, Dove
I quirked a brow, anticipating what Scarlett was going to say.
“I can’t take off what I’m going to buy?” She stared at the young attendant, dumbfounded.
“Oh, yes, of course…” she hesitated, taking a step back, double-taking when she saw me. “Ryden Spectre?”
I put a finger up to my lips. “Shh.”
The blush spread to her neck, turning back towards Scarlett. My dove was highly unimpressed, arms crossed. I couldn’t hold back my adoration.
“It suits you,” I smiled.
She slung it over her shoulder as if it were already hers. “I know.”
At the cash, the attendant made sure to wrap it carefully, fingers shaking. “I…” she started, daring to glance at Scarlett, then me. “I love your music.”
“I appreciate that.” I meant it. “You have a favourite song?”
“Pots and Plants, Ignorance, Protect me… I have so many.” She swallowed. “My brother… he got a guitar for Christmas. It sounds cheesy, but he said he wants to be like you when he grows up.”
“How old’s he?” I asked.
“He’s eleven.”
My jaw tensed, fingers flexing into a fist. Scarlett moved closer, swiping the flask from my pocket. She knew me. She knew what I needed, what Ididn’t.
I was eleven when I got my guitar, when my mom gave it to me. Back when she was around,when she cared about things.
We thought music would save us, and it did. But it broke something inside of me. The shards were always a lot sharper when I used them to strum my guitar, used the blood I cut my hands with to write music.
This boy, he wouldn’t be like me.
He shouldn’t be like me.
But my music… he could love that. Most people loved the art, not the artist. Let’s be real.
“You got a picture of him?” I asked, pulling out my credit card to pay for Scarlett’s bag.
There was a time where all I could afford were cinnamon hearts from the dollar general, dried out markers from pawn shops. I prided myself in the fact I could take care of her, but as usual, Scarlett beat me to it.
“I buy what I wear,” she scolded, grabbing my wrist before my card hit the reader.
“I like what you wear,” I frowned, hand frozen in mid-air.
“Unless you plan on styling this Prada Bonnie, I suggest you slide that back in your wallet.” God, this little deviant. She let go of my wrist, tapping her own card.
I’d buy her something later on, she knew that. My dove hated secrets, loved surprises.
The attendant was red in the face, watching our little interactionwith a mixture of glee and confusion.
“That picture?” I asked again, and she hurried to show me her phone. He was her lockscreen, them two, sitting at a park with ice cream cones.
“Cute,” Scarlett smiled. Even though her tone was harsh, she was sincere. Made of steel that one, even in her softest moments.
I fished around in my pocket, pulling out two concert tickets. I always carried a few with me, for situations like these. Just a couple, I didn’t know how to regulate the volume of venues. But I did argue with Tav to reserve a few extra spots near the front for every show.
For people like this attendant, and the boy who wanted to be a rock star.
“I wasn’t here,” I smiled, handing her the tickets. “What’s your name?”
