Angie, a live-in-the-now singer-songwriter on the cusp of fame, sweeps Mike, a proper Mama's boy and a structural engineer by day, off his feet the moment they shake hands.
They can't deny the chemistry between them, so they start with a boom. What'...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
▪️Saturday, January 23rd, 2018▪️
▪️Tuscon, AZ▪️
If Angie's reaction to my showing up without telling her wavered between exhilaration and doubt, the day playing Cards Against Humanity with her and The Whats, swearing our heads off racing "Mario Kart", and watching the final Bruce Lee movie Angie insisted everyone sees with her curled in by my side proved Poppy and I had a great idea.
The uncertainty vanished after we said good-night and closed the door, sealing ourselves between recording equipment in the back of the bus. Angie hung on me with her legs bent behind her and toppled us onto the air mattress. My lower brain was louder than my actual brain and did most of the talking throughout the night, leaving my mouth only enough time to eat the salty groans from Angie's lips.
Every part of her is addictive. Alive. On the edge of what's allowed. That last part gets me every time. Scares me too. Attracts me more. Wild is the opposite of what my life has been the last five years. Wild is unpredictable. Wild is something I know to avoid. Wild makes my heart beat so hard, too hard, too much, too everything. Why in the fucking hell do I crave her wild?
We were too hot last night, but this morning, I'm glad for the warmth of her smooth body against mine. Angie rolls into me, and I tug the sheet over my chest. The air is set to sixty-eight Fahrenheit, and the vents on the floor blow exactly at the mattress.
She opens one eye and skims her hand along my ribs. "I love my present."
My breath hitches and my morning resting pulse picks up. Today is about her. "Coffee?" I know how much she loves the stuff.
"Not yet." She closes her eye and moves her head higher into the crook of my neck. I'd love to be her pillow for the rest of the day, but today is the day. The flash mob is the real surprise. I can't mess it up. I have to make her birthday perfect.
"We have about half an hour before we have plans."
"What plans?" Her head shoots up, disapproval in her knitted eyebrows.
I push her back onto me. "All in due time. But you'll love it."
"You know how I feel about plans."
"Yes, but these are good ones. Think of them as more surprises." I trace the line of her clavicle. "Don't you like surprises?"
"Not particularly." The flatness in her voice stings.
"You just said you loved me being here. That was a surprise."
"Yeah. But I was going to wing it today. No schedule. Sleep in. Maybe take the crew out for Blizzards today."
"Are you turning eighty-four or twenty-four."
"I feel eighty-four some days. The aches and pains must be on par."
I find her injured hand and give it a real examination. "How about some ice?"
"It won't help. At this point, I think not playing is the only thing that keeps it decent."
"Are you going to quit the tour?"
"No way. I'll figure it out."
"Do you have a plan?"
"Stop it with your plans. Not everyone needs them to survive. I've been doing great without them." Her body language screams not to press any deeper, but I want to understand.
"Does it mean I can't plan anything that includes you?"
"I'm yours right now. Every time I'm with you, I choose to be with you. Every moment we are near each other is a treat. Every day we spend together should be enough."
"Don't you want more?" Something too close to panic lingers in my throat.
"There is no more."
I'm dumbstruck at her response. I rest my forehead against hers. "There's always more."
"Not for me." She moves out of my grasp and bites her lip. "That's as more as it gets for me."
Her words slam at my fucking ballooning heart. Even if she believes she doesn't have more to give, I disagree. I'm not the one stuck in the future. I can see how she would not want the drab future I offer when she's brilliant, but she can't possibly buy into the whole no-future bullshit. Could she be saying this because she didn't want to rub it in my face? She doesn't need to lie to me. She can tell me the truth. Surely she knows that.
"Angie."
She sits up. Slight tremors run through her damaged hand. She finds a mint box in the pocket of her pants I threw over the soundboard when I was trying to find the fastest way to get her out of my clothes last night. She pops something that is definitely a pill and not a mint, downs the water in the bottle I used for brushing my teeth yesterday.
"Angie." My voice is a rumble of regret. This is a misunderstanding. She's been writing songs for the future albums, taking photos for future press conferences. She wants a glorious future for herself just as much as I want it for her. For us.
"I gotta run to the bathroom. And I need coffee."
I wish I could say something to rewind this mess back to us waking up in each other's arms. "Angie, come back." What I want to say is that I did not forget, that I didn't mean to spoil her day. The anger at my dumb selfishness messes with whichever part of my brain generates words. "I can get it for you." The urgency with which I say it should stop her in my tracks, but she pulls yesterday's pants and T-shirt on and opens the door.
"Happy Birthday," I say to her back.
"Thanks." Angie walks through the door and shuts it with a soft click. So civil. I hate civil. No, not true-I love civil with anyone else but her. With Angie I want true. I'd much rather she said, "Shut the fuck up," to my face than use this parody of cool.
