And that makes my fingers itch worse than ever to sit down and try my hand at playing.
She and I are looking at each other, that ever-present challenge in her eyes laid bare.
“That’s a great line,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. “Sorry?”
“‘I send ‘em packin’ like a bouncer with a blacklist.’ It’s a great line. That’s a song, right there.”
Her red lips stretch into a beaming smile.
“That really is.”
She pulls open a drawer in the ottoman, grabs a notebook and pen, and starts scribbling.
And because I can’t help myself, I lean in, watching over her shoulder as she writes.
When she stops after a line, she opens her mouth into an O and flaps the end of her pen against her cheek, making a popping sound.
This is her thinking face, I realize.
Not her “I’m stuck” face.
I wait as she waits, keeping myself from making a suggestion until she looks at me.
“How do I want to say that?”
“Maybe, ‘You think you want in? Take a number, get in line.’”
“‘But don’t try to get under my skin, I’ll be—I’ll be fine,’” she says, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm.
She writes it down in a blurring scrawl, and we continue that way until we hear a knock at the bus door a half hour—and most of a song—later.
Her eyes fly to meet mine, and I don’t think I’m imagining the reluctance when she stands.
“That’s my family.” She laughs, shakes her head, putting the pen down. “I literally forgot where we were.”
I grab the pen and notebook and tuck them away in the drawer.
I close it firmly.
“I know the feelin’,” I tell her.
She holds her hand out for me to take, and even though I could drop her onto my lap with barely a tug, I let her pull me to my feet.
Her long, lithe fingers wrap around my hand.
“Want to go meet Winona?”
I frown.
“Are you sureyouwant that?”
“What, like you were going to stay on the bus all day. Even if I wanted that, Winona would tan my hide.”
“I’d actually like to see that …”
“Oh, stop.”
