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I shrug since I’ve put no thought into it. “Whatever you’re playing.”
He rolls his eyes. “Seriously?”
“Yep.” I smirk, and for a second, everything feels normal and easy between us again.
But then he strums the opening chords to “I Walk the Line.” He knows it’s my favorite Johnny Cash song. Knows I now associate the singer with him.
It’s a deliberate move, underscored in the way tension is swirling between us again. He’s reminding me what I’m walking away from.
“Did you feelthis…withanyother guy?”
I didn’t answer him earlier, but I didn’t have to. He knows the answer.
I focus on the song. Lose myself in the lyrics. Listening to music is an escape. Singing is transcendent. For a few minutes, I live the story I’m telling.
And then it ends. I’m back in a gym that smells faintly of stale sweat and chemical cleaner, staring out at a sea of tipsy teenagers and standing next to a guy who elicits feelings in me complicated enough to merit a therapy session—or six.
I look to Teddy. Despite everything, this is a moment I want to share with him. That I credit to him.
But he’s already put the guitar back. He’s descending the steps from the stage. Striding toward the double doors that mark the main exit from the gym, ignoring all the people trying to get his attention. The microphone I’m holding falls to my side as I watch him walk away.
Shocked—stunned—by how much it hurts as he disappears through the doors without a single glance back.
I told him to walk away.
But it still hurts to watch it happen. Even more than I expected it to.
