And a crappy loss against Knoxville. Springfield’s gonna be a tough barn tomorrow night.
PATTY
We’ll be driving through Springfield tonight. Wish I could stay a couple days and watch you play.
SEAN
You’re not missing much. I’m getting too old for this game.
PATTY
You’re not too old. You’re 33. Bobrovsky’s 36.
SEAN
And I’m not Bobrovsky.
I’m not feeling bad about this, just saying how it is. Don’t feel some way I don’t need you to feel about this.
PATTY
Don’t tell me how to feel.
SEAN
Are you sure *you’re* not the teeny bopper?
PATTY
Boomer.
SEAN
Time to load onto the bus. Don’t let Nash steal your girl.
I don’t answer. His comment doesn’t warrant one. It’s silly. She’s not my girl.
But Sean is one of those guys who likes to intuit, who’s in touch with feelings and can talk about them like it’s not oral surgery. And I’m that guy’s emotionally walled-off brother.
I drop my phone onto my bunk and rub a hand over my face. I should sleep—should at least try—but my mind is too tangled up in Lou—her voice, her guitar, the way she stops outside my bunk just to whisper good night like it means nothing.
Like she doesn’t know she’s undoing me with every whispered word.
I roll onto my back and stare up at the dark ceiling, willing myself to feel nothing. Willing myself to let go of wanting more. Wanting her.
But I can’t.
Not when she’s still out there, curled up on the couch, the tap-tap-tap of her fingers on the phone telling me she’s texting someone (is it Nash?). Not when she keeps disappearing every day and writing songs in her suite that aren’t about me.
Are they about him? Is he inspiring love songs in her?
I squeeze my eyes shut.
This has to stop.
Tomorrow, I’ll avoid her. I’ll keep my head down and my distance. I’ll make sure I’m nothing more than her shadow, slipping into the background where I belong.
But for now, I lie awake and listen for her. And I hope—stupidly—that maybe she’s not thinking about Nash.
