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She lets out another sigh, heavy and meaningful. Already knowing what it is.
“Bad days can sound good.”
“It’s rude to re-gift.”
But she takes the CD carefully, almost reverently, running her finger along the smooth edge of the curved plastic. The Sharpie letters that once readFor Johnny, From Juneare faded and scratched—hard evidence of the many times I played it. The new ones, readingFor June, From Johnny, are clear and still smell like permanent marker.
“I’m surprised you still have this.”
“You shouldn’t be. It’s the most thoughtful gift anyone’s ever given me.”
She keeps her eyes on the gray disc, not looking at me. “I’ll buy a CD player to listen to it. Not sure I remember which songs I put on here.”
“Yeah, you do.” I call her out.
Sutton finally looks up. Weighs something. Admits, “Yeah, I do.” Her lips curve up. “It took me a while to decide which ones to put on it, you know.”
“I know. No one pairs Willie Nelson and Radiohead without putting some serious thought into it.”
She smiles, prompting anotherbamas my heart collides painfully against my rubs. Sutton taps the CD against her thigh. “Thanks, Teddy. Really.”
I nod because I’m not sure what else to say. Worried what might come out if this conversation continues.
Because I can see it—feel it—happening.
All those flawless pieces of us falling seamlessly back into place.
This time, she’s the one who turns and walks away.
