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“So, you’re saying you’re a huge fan of the Muppets, then? Because I look like a Muppet there.”
“Stop. I mean it. Yes, I’m a fan of the Muppets. ‘Man or Muppet’ is literally one of my all-time favorite songs. But that’s an irrelevant fact.”
“Oh my God, I love that song.”
I burst into the chorus of the song, and she instantly joins me, making both of us laugh uproariously. And, once again, I can’t believe how good she makes me feel. How real I am around her. Even when I’m a dork—especially when I’m a dork—she likes me. She gets me.
For so long, I got rejected by girls when I showed too much of my true self. So, I guess I got used to hiding that guy, after a while. Pretending to be someone cooler than I was, just to avoid the usual outcome. But, now, out of the blue, I feel safe to be me, with no filter. No faking. If I love a badass song from The Muppets, then I say so. It’s as simple as that. And, to my shock, the more real I get with her, the more that spark between us feels like it’s growing into a forest fire.
“So, have you seen enough of my childhood now?” I say. “I hope and pray.”
“Yes. For now.”
Maybe I shouldn’t say what I’m thinking. Maybe it’s too soon. Too much. But I can’t resist. “Hopefully, one day, I’ll be able to give you a tour of the mausoleum in person.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “I’d love that.”
The full weight of what we’ve just agreed hits me. I think I just said I want to take her home to meet my mother, and she said that’s groovy with her. Whoa. Do people normally do this so fast? I bet they don’t. And yet . . . None of this feels too fast. It feels right on time.
Alessandra yawns. “Hey, do you mind if I brush my teeth and get into my jammies and call you back? If I fall asleep, I don’t want to be in my clothes.”
“Shoot. I always forget you’re three hours ahead. Why don’t we hang up now and talk tomorrow?”
“No, no! I don’t want to stop talking. I just want to be ready to fall asleep, if my eyelids get heavy.”
“Okay, cutie. Meet me back here in five.”
“Roger,” she says.
“Rabbit,” I reply, since that’s the legally required response for anyone who’s either a Morgan or has hung out with them for any length of time.
“Hey, Matthew!” Alessandra calls out, just before I press the button to disconnect. She smiles. “When we meet back here, bring your guitar, cutie pie. I’ve played you ‘Blindsided.’ So now, you’re finally going to play me ‘Delightful Damage.’”
Fifteen
Fish
Nerves unexpectedly streak through me as I position my guitar in my lap. I’ve never performed “Delightful Damage” for anyone other than Dax and Colin. But a deal’s a deal. Alessandra finally sang me her heartrending song, “Blindsided,” earlier during this video chat. So, now it’s my turn to bare my musical soul to her.
I pluck out the beginning riff, trying to muster the courage to sing. Dax is the one who delivers this song on the record. And he does it beautifully. Just because I’m the one who wrote the song, doesn’t mean I can deliver it even half as well as Dax.
Shit. I’m surprisingly nervous.
I play the riff again, still gathering my courage. But when I look up from my guitar, and into Alessandra’s kind, waiting face, I feel emboldened. I feel safe. And so, for the first time in my life, I perform “Delightful Damage,” the song I wrote in that lonely hotel room in Prague. The song I wrote when I wondered if I was destined to be alone forever. If I wasn’t worthy of the kind of love story shared by Dax and Violet. I sing from the depths of my soul, even though my voice isn’t half as good as Dax’s. And as I sing, I feel the distinct sensation of weight lifting off my chest—off my soul—along with whatever’s left of my insecurities with Alessandra.
I’m showing her everything now. Laying myself bare to her, without holding back. And I know, from the expression on her beautiful face, she knows it.
“Take the second verse,” I prompt, as the first chorus reaches its climax. And to my thrill, Alessandra jumps right in and sings the lyrics to the second verse, using her gorgeous, lilting, jazz-infused voice to make the song her own.
At the end of the second chorus, Alessandra calls out, “The third verse is yours, Fish Taco!” And when I sing the verse this time, Alessandra adds backing harmonies—the same ones I contributed behind Dax on the recording. And as our voices intertwine and cleave together in perfect harmony, I feel like my very soul is making love to hers.
