Page 7 of Composed
“Let’s hope she’s unbusy soon then,” I say, settling into the cushion beside him.
“Funny.” His lips tip into a smirk and rolls his head against the back of the cushion, dirty blond hair falling into his eyes. “Fuck, I’m knackered.”
I huff an agreement. “Not sure that even begins to cover it.”
Silence settles around us, broken only by the soft clink of Saint’s bottle as he drains his beer and the steady tap of my fingers against my thigh.
I sink deeper into the couch. My eyes shutter closed, the hum of the electricity lulling me into the darkness. I’m halfway to slumber when Saint’s voice slips through the quiet.
“You ever planning on telling me what’s going on with you?”
I crack one eye open. His gaze is trained on the ceiling, following the swinging lightbulb. I scan his face, the lines on the edge of his lips, the glassy sheen to his eyes, the way he never stops touching his ring.
A weight settles on my chest.
After twenty-five years of friendship, it’s almost impossible to keep things from each other.
“I could ask you the same,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Given you’re here with me instead of in your own place.”
“Gwen is here.” His brow creases at his sister-in-law’s name. “You know, the one person who hates everything about me.”
“Oh.”Yep, that’ll do it.
Even after twelve years of marriage, his wife’s family doesn’t accept him as her husband. To them, he’s still just the troublemaker from next door.
I’ll never understand why she bothers with them. All they do is tear her down, but she’s loyal to a fault, even at the cost of her own happiness.
I crack my tense knuckles. “Want me to go round and tell Gwendolyn to fuck off?”
He gasps, slapping his hand on his chest dramatically. “A swear word. How dare you? She’d have a heart attack.” His lip twitches. “It’s fine. She’ll be gone by tomorrow.”
“Does that mean I’m stuck with you all night?”
“Yep.” He clicks his fingers. “Now it’s your turn.”
It’s only fair, right? “I’m worried I’m done,” I say, the admission hanging heavy in the air. I blow out a long, laboured breath as I watch my oldest friend.
His expression is blank when he faces me. “With?”
“All of it. I figured with all the creative freedom I now have, music would free flow from my fingertips.” I choke on a bitter laugh. “But there’s justnothing.”
His breath is sharp as it whistles through his teeth.
I drag my hands up my thighs. Saying the words out loud doesn’t lift any of the weight I’m carrying. If anything, it feels heavier now. As if there’s so much more to prove.
Saints jaw ticks. “I’m not ready to be done.”
“Me neither.” I exhale. “But I think I finally have to admit I can’t do it alone. Don’t think I was ever meant to.”
“I’d offer to help, but my writing skills are sorely lacking.”
“Appreciate it. But you’re not who I’m thinking of.”
He looks at me then, searching my face. “Shit. Tell me you aren’t about to go and knock on her door?”
“Fine.” I smirk. “I won’t tell you.”
“It’s been ten years, dude.”
