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Carmen looks tired. Well, who can blame her? Long haul flights are shit at the best of times, and she’s just spent a whole summer crewing for a rock band—lugging heavy flight cases on and off trucks, selling merch every night, and living out of a suitcase.
The shadows under her eyes make my chest clench.
I don’t like it. Don’t like seeing her anything except wildly happy.
She’s scraped her dark hair back into one of those stubby little ponytails she wears, and her slender frame is drowned in a baggy gray sweatshirt. Her cheeks are paler than usual, and she looks haunted as she wheels her luggage out to the taxi rank.
I hate this. If I were a bit more fuckingnormal, if I’d asked her out over this summer instead of stalking her like a psychopath, Carmen might trust me enough to travel together. I could’ve gone on the same flight as her; could have sat beside her while she slept on my shoulder. Could’ve arranged for a car, then driven her home, walked her inside and tucked her in bed—
The airport doors sweep open. Carmen wheels her case out onto the sidewalk.
I follow a short distance behind.
It’s quiet outside, only a few sleep-deprived travelers towing their luggage in and out of the terminal, their faces pinched with exhaustion. I hang further back in the shadows. The horizon is a red line, the sun bleeding as it rises for the day, and planes roar as they fly low over the airport.
It’s good to be near her again.
A cab idles near the sidewalk. Carmen walks over and bends to speak through the window.
See, if things were normal between us, we could share that cab. I could load her case into the trunk then jam my own alongside it, and slide into the backseat next to my girl. I’d keep my guitar case balanced on my knees, and I’d loop an arm around her shoulders—and she’dletme. She’d trust me to see her home.
As it is, I know where Carmen lives, but not because she told me. Not because of trust. Instead, I’ve gathered every detail I can of her, my need for information about this girl a constant sickness in my blood.
I wait for her cab to pull away before I stroll over to the next one, then bend down and give the same address.
I’ve already rented a beach house on her street. Already had my car delivered there, and already ordered a grocery delivery with all her favorite foods. Not because I think she’ll ever eat with me—lord knows I’m notthatdeluded—but because I want us to have more things in common. A greater chance that we’ll eat the same foods on the same nights.
The cab dips below my weight, and I tug the door shut. It closes with a muffled thump.
My thumb worries at one of the clasps on my guitar case as we pull onto the highway, the sun rising over the tarmac.
I hope we don’t get stuck in traffic. I resent every mile that comes between me and my girl.
Four
Carmen
It’s lonely being home. Ever since I lost my parents three years ago, this house has felt three sizes too big. Every room seems to echo, and it’s always too quiet. Doesn’t matter if I play music or put on podcasts or leave the TV on, I can never escape the fact that I am well and truly alone.
I tried advertising for a lodger once, but this creepy old man applied. I took down the advert right away after that. Lost my nerve.
Taking off on the Run Along Ruby tour this summer was a last resort. I just needed to go somewhere else, tobesomeone else, at least for a few months, and I figured I’d come back settled and ready to make some next steps. To sort my life out.
Instead, I’ve come home with a suitcase crammed with laundry, loads of bruises on my legs from working on the trucks, and no clue about what to do next.
Can’t disappear on another band tour. The constant company and hectic lifestyle was fun for a while, but I’m done. Besides, would it be half as good without the songwriter watching me all the time? I doubt it.
…Yeah, I’m messed up. I’m coming to terms with that, too. But here’s the worst part: Imisshim.
Tudor Sinclair. That’s the songwriter’s name. I finally looked him up a few days ago after finishing my last load of laundry and running out of errands to distract myself with. He’s famous.
Duh. He was working with a huge rock band, so of course he’s famous. Why did that fact make my stomach flip when I realized?
Maybe because I couldn’t believe what a successful, creative, painfully gorgeous man like him saw in me… or maybe because there’s a good chance he’s moved on by now. Found another girl to watch while he writes his songs. Whoever she is, maybeshewon’t be too chicken to go and speak to him.
Ugh. He wasright therefor the whole freaking summer, and I never did anything about it. Such an idiot.
After days of non-stop research, I sit at my breakfast bar and scroll through music industry news articles about Tudor Sinclair, my chin resting on my hand and a scowl on my face. None of these articles say what Tudor plans to do next. Is he going on another tour? Taking some kind of creative sabbatical? What is he doing now? Andwhere?
