Page 64 of Songbird
I drop my head onto her damp hair, close my eyes, and surrender to the inevitable. I’ve lost the fight against my head because my heart can’t live without her. Not now and not ever. If it means giving up the easy nothing of my life for the chaotic everything of hers, I’ll do it. I’ll make that choice over and over again.
I pull her tighter against me. “Rosie, I—”
“Don’t say it,” she interrupts. “Whatever it is, it can’t improve on perfect. We can deal with reality tomorrow as long as this dream lasts a little bit longer.”
I hold her against me, feeling her breath move in and out, and burrow closer. Whatever changed between us tonight, Rosie feels it too. She might be scared that what we’ve created won’t be the same outside Silver Leaf, but I can’t imagine a universe where things are any other way.
“Sure, Songbird,” I agree with every intention of making this moment last the rest of our lives. “We can stay like this for as long as you want.”
twenty-two
Rosie
Stretchedoutonmytowel, timber dock at my back and afternoon sunshine wicking river water from my skin, I close my eyes so I can focus on the way this place smells and sounds andfeels. I never want to forget what these weeks at Silver Leaf have given me, even if the thought of leaving makes me want to cry.
I roll my head to the side so I can examine Finn’s profile next to me. My throat, already sharp with the idea of saying goodbye, tightens even more, and my stomach twists into bleaker knots. For the thousandth time since we made love last night, I swallow the plea that hovers on my lips.Come with me.
I’m too afraid to say it, even after all my talk of taking back my power and being more confident and in control. Maybe it was only ever bravado, or maybe I’m only strong with Finn by my side. After spending six years expecting a man to supply my self-esteem, the idea that I might be doing the same with Finn makes it impossible to ask him for this. After all, if he wanted to, he would.
He’s been quiet all day, stoic and focused while he finalized security plans for my return to LA, and I’m trying to follow hisexample. I know he’s hurting as much as I am, and after the last three weeks, I know he deals with difficult emotions by staying busy and getting things done. It’s selfish to want him to break down to prove he loves me the way I love him, but it would make it easier to take his hand and not let go until we reached Los Angeles.
But that’s not going to happen, and I’m choosing to be distracted by everything waiting for me in LA. When I told my record label I had new music, they were understandably ecstatic. My creative juices haven’t exactly been flowing in the last year, and I was on tour before that, so they were already impatient to get me back in the studio. They’ve offered me a private house until I find my feet and a new manager, and they recommended a fantastic new publicist with loads of experience. She’s meeting me at the airport at ten a.m. tomorrow so we can talk strategy on the flight to LA, and my new security team will be in place when we get there.
Everything’s coming together. Almost everything. After I leave Finn, I wonder if the world will ever feel complete again.
I turn to my side, prop my head above my elbow, and ignoring the pang of anticipated loss behind my ribs, I try to memorize the shape of the man before me. Finn’s strong, hard body is a masterpiece of flesh and ink. His tattoos are a thick maze of intricate shapes and patterns, some faded and others still rich and dark. I reach over to trace a labyrinthine collection of clouds. Delicate line work in swirls and swoops beckon my finger to trace them over the gentle dips and ridges of his ribs and muscles.
Finn cracks one eye and turns his head to look at me. “Thought the swim and the sun might have put you to sleep.”
“No. Well, maybe. Just for a minute.”
I glide my fingertip through the wetness on his skin and wonder how light or firm I’d need to press to make him flinch. He’s hard as stone and about as responsive too.
“I like this one,” I tell him, following the lines of sunlight streaming through the cloud bank. “The shading is incredible.”
“Thanks. I like that one too.”
I track the shapes in his art, circling details as they make themselves known. An angel here. A constellation of stars there. Roses. Thorns. Birds. Angels. Sheet music. Guitar strings. Geographical coordinates. Song lyrics. Poetry.
“Invisible and idle,” I read as I brush my thumb over a line of script. “Waiting.”
Finn hums, eyes closed again, face to the sun.
“Did you write that?”
His mouth pulls up at one corner. “It was the first thing I ever wrote. Thought it was profound at the time, so I did what any idiot kid would do—I got it in ink.”
My eyes sting and I blink to stop the tears from falling. I can still recall the first song I ever wrote, and I can’t imagine being so enamored with it that I’d permanently etch it on my body. That Finn felt so certain about his art from such a young age breaks me. What happened that he gave up on it so completely?
“I love it,” I whisper, and I dip my head to kiss the lettering across his heart.
Finn strokes my damp hair, and a deep breath expands his chest. In and out.
“I like the birds,” I add, outlining the shape of two little flying birds on Finn’s stomach. “What are they? Sparrows?”
“Song sparrows,” Finn confirms.
“Pretty.”
