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A different-colored pen.
More words crossed out. More added.
A note on the side of the page in a messy, masculine scrawl that most definitely did not belong to me.
Who listeneds to your stories sad songs
The shoulder that you cried cry on
Out on that cliff ledge you walked on
When
The note on the side read:
Right . . . so I don’t know you, but I’m now fucking terrified for you. If I had the time, I’d wait to see who showed up looking for this journal. I changed some words because I want you to know that I’m here listening to you. And “cliff” sounded so final. Don’t let whatever you’re feeling be final. I’ll be back. Will you hold on if you know I’m coming back for you?
I read the note again . . . and then again. Each time my brow pinched tighter. I glanced up at the few words I’d managed to get out during my break, then let my face fall into the pages of the notebook as a groan escaped me.
I sat down right there, behind the greeter’s desk of Mama’s Café, and rewrote the small part I already had, and added the words that were now flowing to my fingers because of the smallest change this stranger had made.
Who listens to your sad songs
The shoulder that you cry on
Out on that ledge you walk on
When you’re sinking
Who knows your keeps your secrets locked up
When I’m there’s no one you can trust
I know it’s much more than just wishful thinking
Just say the words and I’ll be there
The last line I threw in because of the stranger’s note, and smiled to myself at the words. Then below their note, I wrote my own response:
I’m sorry if I scared you, but I’m not suicidal. (I believe that’s what you were thinking?) This is actually about a pseudo-relationship with a guy. I appreciate your words, and I believe anyone who had been thinking of ending their life would have loved receiving your note. As much as I want to know who this heroic stranger is, I need to get home. However, I will leave this here in hopes that you find it, and that it gives you peace of mind.
I stood and placed my notebook on top of the desk with a note below asking for the notebook to be left there. Then, despite the way my body rebelled at the action, I forced myself to walk away from my notebook and out of Mama’s Café.
Chapter Four
Charlie
May 30, 2016
I PULLED INTO the alleyway beside the warehouse minutes later, my mind still reeling from the stranger who had taken the time to write to someone they didn’t know. I brought Jagger’s car to an abrupt stop when I saw Keith dart from the warehouse to the front of my car, where it still sat from that morning.
I watched as he disappeared behind the propped-up hood of my car, and my stomach dropped.
I looked around the alleyway, but saw only Grey’s car in its usual spot. I tried to think if I’d seen any other cars parked on the street on my way in, but I’d been so consumed in another’s words that I hadn’t been paying attention.
My fingers danced anxiously on the steering wheel as I contemplated leaving, or finding another way to get into the warehouse—like a window—where I wouldn’t have to walk past my car, and eventually I blew out a harsh, determined breath.
For all I knew, Jagger was attempting to figure out the problem with my car again. Doubtful, but not completely improbable.
