"I'm sorry, Miss Taylor, but visiting hours are over."
"That's okay," I offered a weak smile. I stood up to leave, pecking Danny on the lips, our fingers still entwined. "Bye."
I turned to leave but he fisted his hand, pulled me back with more strength than I thought possible, and scooping my neck around with one hand, he kissed me softly and lovingly, but with a sense of urgency. Finally, he pulled back, looking me in the eyes. "Tell little Luke our story, okay? I love you."
I looked at him, confused, but told him that I loved him too and that I would tell whoever Luke was our story. He said I'd know.
It wasn't until I left the hospital and was halfway to our house that I got it.
The next morning, when I got the call from his parents, I wasn't surprised. I was numb. I couldn't cry, as hard as I tried.
I slipped on his shoes, caked with red mud from when he'd leave, walking for hours with no real destination. I grabbed my coat from the rack near the door, which he promised he would use when I was reluctant to buy it.
I opened my door and walked out to the cold air. I locked my door behind me and turned around, looking at me car for a long time. And then, I turned and started to walk. There was no hurry.
He was already gone.
The fresh air kissed my cheeks and softly stroked my hair, feeling like a mother's hands. It helped me remember.
"You need to learn to breathe," he said one day, when I was going slightly crazy because the familiar stage fright had come back with a bang. He got up off our couch, paused the movie we were barely watching, and held out a hand to me. I looked from him to his hand and back, then took it. He led s outside, through the sliding glass doors into our back yard. "Look at the stars," he ordered. "Don't just look at then with a passing glance. No, I want you to search for constellations. I want you to imagine us being up there, waving to our great-great-great-grandchildren."
I looked at him with my free hand on my hip. "Impossible."
He glanced down from the heavens and looked at me for a moment, then put a hand on his chin. "I guess that would be kind of impossible. If we were that old, we wouldn't be able to see them clearly. I guess we'd have to be in heaven instead. I'm pretty sure we'll get better reception there."
I breathed a laugh. He was always a dreamer. Sometimes, he even got pessimistic little me to start to imagine too.
I walked, remembering some more and laughing to myself. Even when it started to rain, I didn't mind. It just helped.
"It's raining."
I looked up from strumming on my guitar to see him looking out the window, longing in his eyes, pen poised in the air as he stopped in the middle of writing a lyric. "So?"
"Come on." He grabbed my hand and pulled me past the coat rack, where our coats were hanging, and opened the door, running out into the downpour with me. I screamed and tried to pull away but he grabbed my other hand and started spinning us around in circles. "Come on, Taylor, live a little!"
"We're going to get a cold!"
"And your point is?"
"We have a show in England in a week. We can't afford to be sick," I said, knowing that I sounded like our agent.
He just grinned. "Fine, GRETEL. You can sit out if you want."
I sighed heavily. "I guess we can play in the rain for a while-"
Write Me a Song, Love. - A Short Story
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