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“Uh, he’s already been waiting for a while,” I said after swallowing a sip of water.
Two weeks ago, after Devin had revealed his honest opinion of the album not feeling finished, I’d told him I agreed. We’d decided I’d take a little time to get some more writing done while he handled business with his own band. But after two weeks at home and only two more incomplete songs written, I was starting to wonder if it would be better if we dropped the album altogether—or at the very least, put it on the back burner. There was such a thing as wanting a project to be done so badly that you forced it along to be finished, but that final product was never going to be what it could’ve been if we’d just taken our time.
Maybe we just need time.
“If you need a break, take a break,” Mom said, reading my mind and the lines forming between my brows.
I bit my tongue, letting the silver barbell wedge against my front teeth, as I gazed through the kitchen door’s latticed window. The BMW sat there, lonely and unused. It’d been weeks since I’d taken it out. Now, as if by a magnetic pull, I longed to sit behind the wheel. To see where I’d end up while knowing exactly where that’d be.
I need to see her.
“Maybe I’ll just take a ride,” I said, grabbing my keys from the counter.
“Maybe you should,” Mom said, a hint of knowing in her tone. As if she understood the trouble, the root of my problem. Maybe even more than I did.
***
I must have knocked on the door a dozen times before her father finally answered. Clearly annoyed and creeping toward anger, he stared me down, eyebrows furrowed and lips turned in a deep frown.
“What can I do for you, Dylan?” he asked, inflecting a harsh edge I didn’t appreciate.
Her parents never seemed to care for me much. I understood not being my biggest fan or not wanting to be best friends, but to be cold and even rude felt uncalled for. And for what? Was it the ink? The piercings?
Or do they just think I’m not good enough for their little girl?
“Lennon around?” I asked, peering past him into the house.
Lennon’s mom was in the kitchen, staring toward the door, but no Lennon was in sight.
Her father hesitated, biting at his lips as he internally debated on his response, before nodding and stepping aside. “I’ll get her,” he replied in a gruff tone as I walked into the house with my hands shoved deep into my pockets.
He headed upstairs while her mother kept on staring, holding a roll of paper towels in one hand like she had been in the middle of something when I showed up, unannounced, banging on the door like a raving lunatic.
I stepped closer, walking slowly, and offered a smile. “How are you?” I asked, taking a stab at small talk—never a strong suit of mine.
“I’m okay,” she answered, tense but cordial. “How are you?”
I shrugged. “Trying to write an album that doesn’t seem to want to write itself,” I replied before sighing, as if to say,But what can you do?
“Ah,” she answered, pressing her lips together.
Then, she nodded, like she knew something. Like maybe she knew too much. Like maybe her daughter had indulged the basis of our relationship up until only a few months ago, and why shouldn’t she have said something? The woman was her mother. Mothers and daughters shared things, so it wasn’t unreasonable to think, but that would explain why these people didn’t like me. That would explain a lot. And with that thought, my brow crumpled, and my stomach dropped while I hurried to think of a way—anyway—I could patch things up because I didn’t like that her parents might not like me for that reason, as if I had a reason to care.
“I’m just here ‘cause I was in the area,” I sheepishly explained.
Lennon’s mom nodded. “Right. I gotcha.”
She turned away, and thank God, there were footsteps coming down the stairs.
It had been many weeks since I’d last laid my eyes on her, and seeing her now made me realize that all that time without allowing myself the gift of looking at her was like living years without sunlight. A lifetime without the moon and stars. An eternity without every vital, simple human necessity and joy required for survival.
“Hey,” I said, breathless and stupid as she stepped away from the stairwell and into the living room.
“Hi, Dylan,” she said, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“Do I ever?” I laughed casually, but she didn’t laugh with me. My smile wilted quickly. “Should I have?”
“No, I guess not. I mean … it’s fine, but … you know, my mom’s about to make dinner, and—”
