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I spin on the stool, seeing her with her head propped up in her hand. Her hair spills over her shoulders in waves, that wide smile splitting her face.
“Aren’t we supposed to be writing a song for your birthday?” I ask, my own smile dancing at the edge of my lips as I lean down to rest my elbows on my knees and clasp my hands in front of me.
“It’s late, and I need to be inspired.” She looks comfortable, and I can’t help but take it as a win. “I want to feel like my entire world has changed when I listen to you play. Just like every other girl you’ve taken into your little thirst trap music den.”
My low laugh sneaks out of me. “Thirst trap?” I question.
Her cheeks flush, and she looks away. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “It was a joke. I thought it would be funny.” Ellis places her hands in her lap, watching as she picks at her nails. “I’m not usually this comfortable around strangers, but we have been married for over ten years, so I guess that changes things.” Abreathy laugh escapes her lips, and her eyes meet mine–darker in the dim lighting. It’s like there’s a depth there just waiting to be discovered. “I didn’t mean any of that. I just want to hear you play.”
I run a hand over my dark hair, keeping one elbow placed on my knee as I look up at her. “It was funny, however inaccurate. I don’t use this place as a thirst trap, though Noah would disagree.”
“Noah?” she questions.
“One of my friends.” I turn on the stool, tap a few notes and test out the keyboard again. “English professor who works at the college where I work. Young, newly subscribed to a dark academia aesthetic. If anything, he’s the walking thirst trap. I’m sure he has read every Jane Austen novel just so he can charm the pants off intellectual women everywhere.”
Ellis snorts, propping her head in her hand again and messing with the hem of my basketball shorts she’s wearing. “Kind of brutal to your friend.”
“Nah,” I say, thinking about the singular emoji message I left on read earlier. “He’s brutal to me. Plus, his mom and my mom are friends.”
“They both set up your playdates?”
My tongue rolls along my cheek as I suppress a smile. “Sometimes.”
Ellis’s gaze flicks down, landing on the tattoo on my forearm and my smile drops, nerves suddenly pulsing through my blood as she analyzes me. I suppose if I were in her situation, I’d be trying to figure me out, too.
“What’s that one for?” she asks, and I look down at my arm.
“Which one?”
“The tattoo of the vintage car. The beetle, with all the flowers growing out of it. I like it. It’s pretty.” Ellis plays with the ends of her hair. “What is it for?”
I clear my throat, wondering how she picked that particular tattoo out of all of them. I run a finger over the car, remembering when I got it. “It’s for my brother,” I offer. “Died in a car accident when I was sixteen.” A heaviness drops over the room, and I hate the way it makes me feel–the way it reminds me of how everyone responded to my entire family right after the crash. I long to get rid of the weight of it.
“That’s–” She doesn’t look at me with pity, just blinks and looks at the tattoo briefly before meeting my gaze. “It’s cool. I like it.”
I chuckle. “My brother dying?”
“The tattoo, you idiot.”
I place my hand on my heart, acting injured. “Ouch. Kick a man while he’s down.” I rub the spot, and she laughs, stretching her legs out from where she sits in the beanbag.
“I lost my mom when I was thirteen,” she confesses, her smile dropping. “Breast cancer. My aunt raised me.”
“And she’s not around for your birthday?” I ask, my brow quirking up. I’m anxious for more information about her life–more pieces of truth instead of her fake job selling cricket protein bars.
“She was young. Twenty-four and fresh out of college when I descended on her life unintentionally. She’s on a cruise with her family this week.” Ellis offers a small smile, one that says she doesn’t mind–like she’s glad. “B deserves it. She’s done a lot for me.” She shifts on the beanbag before clearing her throat and looking at me again, brown eyes boring into my own.
When I asked her to come back to write a song, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind, but something about the late hour makes people a little more vulnerable–more honest.
“And your dad?” I ask.
Her nose scrunches before she responds. “More of a ghost than my mom.” She shrugs. “I don’t know him. I suppose he’sout there somewhere, but considering I’ve never met him, I imagine he’s rather unpleasant. Eventually, I stopped thinking about him. No use in hurting my own feelings.” One corner of her mouth pulls up, the heavy weight still bearing down on the room.
“So, a car accident?” she asks, and I can’t help but feel she’s trying to draw attention away from what she just said. My chest aches, but I know how that kind of sympathy can feel, so I stuff it down and don’t ask her for more.
“Yeah.” I grab the hood of my sweatshirt and pull it over my head. “Nothing crazy. It was raining, and he hydroplaned.”
It’s quiet in the room–a moment of pause before Ellis speaks again. “That sucks.”
