Smitten

I notice the sound of a car driving down my mom’s quiet street below.

And then, the sound of Alessandra shifting positions in her bed.

And, suddenly, I realize it’s most definitely on me to speak next. To make it clear how much I care about her. “Hey, Ally, I don’t know if this is too much, too soon, for me to say. But I just want you to know I really, really like you. And . . .” I take a deep breath. “I’m not interested in dating anyone else. I know it’s hard dating someone long distance, but—”

“I only want to date you,” she blurts, like she’s been holding her breath underwater. “I’ll wait for you, Fish. As long as it takes. I only want you.”

Euphoria flashes through me. Grinning from ear to ear, I touch her beautiful face on my computer screen. “I’d give anything to be able to kiss you right now.”

“I’d give anything to be kissed.”

We stare at each other longingly for a long moment. But when she yawns, and I glance at the clock, it dawns on me, with the time difference, it’s closing in on four in Boston.

“Aw, shit. I’m such a dick for keeping you up. You’ve got the lunch shift at work, right?”

She yawns again and nods. “It’s okay. I’ll drink a ton of coffee.”

“Time to get to sleep, Little Lioness.”

She pouts. “I won’t be able to fall asleep. I’m way too happy about what you just said.”

I shoot her a stern look. “Yeah, well, those sleepy eyes of yours are telling a different story, pretty lady.”

She yawns, yet again, and rubs her eyes. “Okay. I’ll close my eyes and give it a try. Will you sing to me a little bit to help me drift off?”

“Sure. Close your eyes, sweetheart. I’ll sing you a little lullaby.”

“‘Fireflies?’”

I pause. I’ve played that song countless times in cities all over the world, but I’ve never sung it before. Not the lead part, anyway. But as I look at Alessandra’s beautiful face in repose, her dark lashes fanned against her smooth skin, I realize it’s the perfect song for me to sing to her. Because, just like the song says, I’m feeling a whole lot of wings and lights inside me right now. In fact, I’ve been feeling them since the night I met her.

“A cappella?” I ask.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Okay. You got it.” I touch her closed eyelids on my screen. And then her cheeks and nose. I take a deep breath and begin to sing in a soft, intimate voice:

Fireflies

You got me feelin’ ‘em

Never before or since

All my life

Been chasing butterflies

And in just one night

One perfect night . . .

Girl, you made butterflies

Your bitch . . .

In a barely audible voice, I whisper-sing the catchy chorus, like I’m singing it with my lips pressed against her ear. And by the time I finish that portion of the song, I’m convinced she’s fast asleep.

“Ally?” I whisper.

“Mm-hmm,” comes her soft reply. She opens her big blue eyes and smiles beatifically at me. “You’re a wonderful singer, Matthew. You have a beautiful voice to match your beautiful soul.”

My heart is thundering. “Same to you.”

Her eyelids flutter closed again.

“Sweet dreams, beautiful girl,” I say.

“My dreams will be sweet, because I’ll surely dream of you.”

She blows me a little kiss and languidly disconnects the call . . .

And that’s it. She’s gone.

And I’m officially head over heels for this girl.

Without missing a beat, I grab my phone and tap out a text to an unlikely recipient. A dude I wouldn’t call a text buddy of mine, by any stretch. But there’s no doubt this is the text he needs to receive right fucking now:

Hey, Reed. I just got off a video chat with Alessandra. She played me an amazing song she wrote called “Blindsided.” If you listen to one thing I say in this lifetime, then let it be this: As soon as you can, get your ass to Boston and watch Alessandra perform her new song. You’re welcome.

Sixteen

Fish

It’s Sunday afternoon in Seattle. I’m at Claire Morgan’s first birthday party. And, damn, I wish Alessandra were here with me in this backyard.

At present, the forty or so people in attendance at the party are gathered around the birthday girl in her highchair, watching her mow through a small chocolate cake like she’s that T-Rex in Jurassic Park. You know, the one that mowed through a full-grown cow in one loud gulp.

“Okay, Claire-Bear,” Ryan Morgan, the birthday girl’s father, says. He leans over his baby, clearly intending to extract her from the chair, and she throws up her chocolate-smeared hands in protest.

Of course, the crowd loves her reaction. If there’s one thing the Morgan family adores, it’s a high-spirited kid.

“Yes, baby girl,” Ryan’s wife, Tessa, says to her daughter. “Cake time is over.”

“No!” Claire shouts, splaying her messy fingers. And, again, the crowd hoots and eggs her on.