Page 129 of Love Felt Like This

“Yet,” Nana adds.

“You’ll have one,” I throw in. Beverly peers at me from the corner of her eye. I watch the fire dance across her lips as her dad throws more wood on the crackling flames.

I have no clue if she remembers our conversation that night or the unfortunate bar event where her tight dress got the best of me. I don’t feel shame—not exactly. I’m not ashamed of my attraction to Beverly when she does Beverly things like try to watch over me, laugh out loud at Poe like sunshine in a bottle, and wear gorgeous outfits that fit her like a glove.

But I do feel guilty. Beverly likes her peace of mind, and I’m shattering that.

Even if she does remember the incident, she probably doesn’t want to acknowledge it. I wouldn’t blame her. She was simply sparking Beau’s jealousy when she stayed on my lap. But the idea of it not being real…the discomfort tugs the muscles at my chest, pulling taut and painful like barbed wire scraping against my bones.

Every single time I’ve placed my palm in hers, it’s been a ruse.

But now…now it isn’t. Not to me.

I like Beverly.

I want to kiss Beverly.

I think of Beverly each morning, I compose songs about Beverly each afternoon, and I ache to see her each night.

Jimmy asked for one song. I’m now up to five, and every composition is about her.

I’m sick.

Sick, sick, sick.

Because we’re colleagues, and colleagues don’t write songs about each other the way I’m melting notes into sonnets for her.

I’m a damn romantic, and I hate it.

I have to record this album, and she’s got her show to produce. The sheer amount of work on her plate is unfathomable. I can’t—I won’t—derail it.

I look over and see Ava shimmying closer to Beverly, nuzzling her head into Beverly’s neck.

It’s not just my heart I have to worry about. Would Ava remember her after this winter?

Beverly’s hands shiver against Ava’s coat. I want to reach out and hold them.

I adjust in my chair, glancing across the fire to see Nana staring back. Her lips rise in the corners to a mischievous smile. It’s like she can read my illicit thoughts of holding her granddaughter’s hand. Something so simple has never felt so nerve racking.

But I can’t stop noticing Beverly. I focus on every lick of orange flame from the firepit reflected in her beautiful green eyes. My throat closes when I see how it makes her blond hair almost ginger. How the soft exhale from her parted pink lips sends a puff of white into the air. I want to capture that air in my own mouth and swallow down every breathy sigh.

This situation is only temporary, though. She’s on a deadline, and so am I. What do we expect to happen after? I’ll be on tour overseas. She’ll be shooting a show every week.

“I could like puppets,” Rob says. “For a summer in LA, I could.” He nods to his sister. “You like them.”

Beverly leans back in her chair. The column of her neck stretches to the sky.

“I love them,” she says simply, so much care echoed into that statement.

This show has her heart, not me. It’s selfish to want more. Not when she has dreams that hinge on my ability to create music for her. I’m mixing up my priorities. My life would be too much for her. I’m too much for her. Me and my fame and my complications. Robin knew it. Beverly knows it.

“Do not send that boy to LA,” Beverly’s mom says, laughing.

Greg tips his drink toward her. “Oh, he’d love it.”

“I would,” Rob insists. “See? Bev? I’d be good at whatever job you give me too. I’ll try out puppet voices or something.”

His dad chuckles. “You legally cannot work, Rob.”