No Tomorrow
None of those things come out of my mouth. I just sit there basking in the idea of being sexy and adorable with—knowing my luck—no doubt a super goofy smile on my face.
He touches my paperback and looks over the cover of the man and woman in a heated embrace. The man on the cover has long dark hair, just like his.
“You’re reading romance?”
“Yes.” I hope he doesn’t think it’s silly. “I read mysteries, too.” I’ve literally never read a mystery, but it sounds good and diverse.
He pushes his hair out of his face and takes on that faraway, reflective look I’ve seen on his face before. “Romance is a bit of a mystery in itself, isn’t it?”
I ponder that for a few moments. “In a lot of ways, yes, I think it is.”
“I used to read a lot. It was a good escape from the bullshit of life when I needed it. But now music and people-watching do that for me.”
“Reading books and watching movies are my escapes. You don’t want to know how many times I’ve watched Titanic.”
“Ahh.” He smiles and nods. “Devastation masked in a love story. I see the appeal.”
I laugh. “I know it’s wrong, but it’s so addicting.”
“Trust me. I get it.”
Acorn rolls onto his back. As we both reach to rub his belly at the same time, our hands accidentally touch. I pull mine away, startled by the weird shiver that travels up my arm and into my chest.
“Do you ever sing? Or do you just play guitar?” I ask.
I catch the briefest clench of his jaw muscles. “I sing sometimes. I just don’t like to.”
“How come?”
He stares at the dog, who has all his paws up in the air. “I guess I prefer to be in the background and not the center of attention. Less seen and more heard.”
I know all about fading into the background of life. “I’d love to hear you sing someday.”
He frowns, then smiles before he unlatches the guitar case and pulls out the scratched and scuffed-up instrument. “I’ll make a deal with ya,” he says. “I’ll sing for you, just this once, if you let me buy you an ice cream after.” He nods his head toward the ice cream cart across the park.
My leeriness of him is fading; all thoughts of him being some kind of big bad wolf fall to the wayside with the promise of singing and ice cream. I realize if all it would have taken to lure me in was ice cream and a song I probably could have been easily kidnapped as a child. But something about Evan isn’t evoking that stranger-danger vibe I initially felt with him. I want to trust him, and even more, open up to him a little.
“Deal,” I reply. “Ice cream is my weakness.”
He sits cross-legged, the guitar in his lap and his tattooed knees shoving through the frayed holes in his jeans. Cocking his head to the side, he looks up to the sky.
“All right, Ladybug,” he finally says, taking the toothpick out of his mouth and putting it in the pocket of his blue and gray flannel shirt. “I’ll sing you a song I wrote a few days ago. It still needs some work, but it’s a start.”
Intrigued, I set my paperback aside as he plays a slow, faint melody that gradually grows deeper. When he begins to sing, the passion in his voice reaches straight into my soul and latches onto it. Possesses it. Despite the warmth of the sun, goosebumps scatter over my flesh in response to his unique, gravelly, but emotional tone. His eyes are hooded and downcast as he sings, and I realize when he performs his own music, he gets intimately involved—consumed by the melody. He pours his heart and soul into it, and the words and music carry traces of him along with them. And he was right when he said my breath changes when I listen to him play, because this song and his voice have made me breathless.
Now it makes sense—all the times I watched him lose himself in music. Those were his songs. The songs I recognized from the radio? He was different when he played those. Although he performed them perfectly, he didn’t close his eyes to shut out the world or move his hands so passionately across the strings. The connection wasn’t there.
But this, this private performance just for me, is like he’s sharing his devotion to the art of words and sound. It’s obvious he deeply loves what he creates. I’m honored and awed and quite enamored with him, his music, even his dog. The lyrics are dark, seductive, and sad:
And then there was you,
Slayer of my heart,
The one I would destroy,
Keeper of my heart.
You came like a dream, and I snuffed you out.