Page 37 of The Heart That Breaks
“Oh, my gosh. I love ‘One More Last Chance.’ It’s one of my favorites.”
“He co-wrote that with Gary Nicholson.”
“Didn’t he write a lot of music with Willie Nelson too?”
“Yeah, he did,” I say, surprised that she would know this, although I don’t really know why. “You sure you’re not writing songs as well as singing them?”
She shrugs. “I love the idea of writing. I’m just not very good. I’ve studied a bunch of writers, trying to figure out their secrets. Do you think there is a secret?”
“My dad says the only secret is living. And holding up a mirror through your words to show others your life experience.”
“Guess we don’t have much of that yet, huh?”
“Actually, I think we do. Being a teenager has never been an easy thing, no matter what time period you grow up in.”
“Easier for some,” she says, running a hand across one of the guitars.
“Ouch.”
She looks at me and shakes her head a little. “Sorry. I really didn’t mean for that to be directed at you.”
“Who then?”
She shrugs, refuses to meet eyes with me. “No one in particular. I’d be lying though if I denied the fact that I’ve wondered what it would be like to be in your crowd at school.”
“Is that how you see it? My crowd?” I ask the questions not out of irritation but just because it’s never really occurred to me that it was something she would care about.
“It just seems like it would make it all easier, being one of the kids that other kids wanted to be.” She shakes her head and adds, “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make you feel bad or anything.”
“It’s cool. But maybe other people look at you and see something they’d like to be.”
She laughs a little. “Which part? The trailer park address? Or the stellar stand-in step dad?”
I hear the attempt at lightness, but feel the truth beneath the words. Without giving myself time to edit the gesture, I reach out and brush the back of my hand across her cheek. “I don’t see any of that when I look at you.”
“What do you see?” she asks softly, her gaze snagging mine.
I stare down at her for a string of seconds during which my heart thumps hard against my chest. “I see a girl I’d really like to kiss.”
Her eyes widen and then soften. And I know she wants me to kiss her. We stand there, studying each other, thinking about it, picturing it happening.
But then she takes a step back. “Um, we came here to sing, I think.”
“Yeah,” I say, not bothering to hide my disappointment. “And Matt should be here any sec.”
As if on cue, a knock sounds at the door, and Matthew is striding into the room, drumsticks in hand. “What’s up?” he says, playing them in the air. “Y’all got this band thing started yet?”
“We just got here,” I say. “Why don’t we sit down for a few and talk about how we’re gonna do this?”
Matt looks at Ann-Elizabeth. “So I hear you can sing?”
Her laugh is nervous. “I guess we’ll see.”
“Well, all right then,” he says. “Let’s get on with it.”
*
Ann-Elizabeth
