Page 33 of The Heart That Breaks
“You think he’ll use the song on their next record?”
“Yeah. I think he will.”
“Cool,” I say, glancing out the window and realizing that whatever desire I’d had before this morning to be a writer and make it in country music didn’t compare to the way I feel now. Itwasa high, creating something you know is good. And the second thing I realize is that I can’t wait to tell Ann-Elizabeth all about it.
*
Ann-Elizabeth
I TELL MYSELF not to expect him.
But once I’m outside with Henry, Algebra II notebook in my lap, textbook on the ground beside us, my thoughts won’t focus on the numbers in front of me. Instead, they veer left and right without failing to center on Nathan and my reluctant expectation that he will show up again tonight.
It’s later than the other times when his headlights flash at the end of the gravel road that turns in to the trailer park. Happiness flutters inside me, and I stop myself from squashing it. Realizing who it is, Henry doesn’t bother with his usual protective growl. The lights disappear, and I hear the sound of the Jeep door opening and closing.
It’s impossible to make him out until he’s practically standing right in front of us. And then I see his smile, hear his low, “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say back, unable to prevent my own smile from making itself known.
“Guess what?” he says, dropping down beside me and reaching out to rub Henry’s neck.
“What?”
“I sat in on a songwriting session today with my dad and Holden Ashford. I actually got to write a line or two.”
I hear the excitement in his voice, and I feel happy for him. “That’s amazing.”
“It was. I swear it was like a high. Seeing a song start with a lick and hear it built note by note, word by word within a few hours.”
“I can’t imagine,” I say. But truly, I can imagine what a thrill that would be.
“I know this is going to sound weird because we haven’t been talking that long, but you’re the person I couldn’t wait to tell about it.”
Something warm and undeniably compelling unfurls within me. “Really?” I ask in a barely audible voice.
“Really,” he says, his gaze holding mine so that I can see for myself that he means it.
Still, I don’t know what to say. Before I can utter a word though he speaks first.
“So I have this idea,” he says.
“What?”
“I think we should start a band.”
“What?” I repeat.
“Yeah. You as lead singer. Me on guitar and writing. Matt plays the drums. We’ll have to get somebody on electric and keyboard.”
I hold up a hand, astonished. “Wait. You’ve never even heard me sing.”
“I don’t need to.”
“I could be awful.”
“You’re not though, are you?”
I laugh a little. “That’s probably a matter of opinion.”
