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I blame Quinn and those damn Long Island iced teas.
And the shitshow I’ve made of things.
I shake my head and make my way to my kitchen. It’s not anything fancy, but at least it’s got a modern vibe, unlike a lot of houses in the Twin Ports. I stalk over to the fridge and open it, swiping a beer from the back, then make my way to the deck chairs out back.
I’ve barely managed a few steps when I shudder.
It’s still a bit chilly, even for June.
As I settle into my chair, I shudder against its bite, approving of the punishment it seems fit to doll out.
My gaze drifts out over my backyard, illuminated by the mid-day sun. The leaves are a vibrant green, betraying the vibe the lake winds are putting out. If I shut off my other senses, I could almost believe it was summer.
I set down my unopened beer on the small table to my left, then reach into my pocket. I pull out my phone, checking the notifications for the hundredth—thousandth—time.
The hope that Lily would have texted me has begun to dwindle, so I shove that idiotic part of me back down as I open my phone and tap on YouTube.
I maneuver to my favorite playlist and press play in the hopes it can take my mind off of things, if only a little bit.
Stuck In My Head,by Blü Eyes is the first to play.
It’s such a fitting song, I almost laugh out loud.Almost.
I reach for my beer, crack it open, and take a deep draw in the hopes it might numb my mind.
For a while, I just sit there, listening to the music, sipping my memories away, and staring into the trees beyond. The breeze blows, continuing to prove that summer comes not because of a date on a calendar, but when Mother Nature deems herself ready.
I raise my beer in salute.
I’m also not oblivious to the similarities in the relationship between myself and Lily.
I’m finding myself relenting to her needs.
What I feel—what I want—it’s delicate.
And impossible.
The lyrics from one of my favorite bands pulls me from my internal tirade.
“Nothing’s impossible …”
I snort into my beer at the timing.
Yeah, life’s some treat, alright. More like a tablespoon of arsenic.
The thought is a bit more sardonic than normal.
Whatever I saw in the songNothing’s Impossible,by Walking on Cars is obviously lost on me today. I don’t even—
“… gazing at the stars.”
And there it is.
That one line.
I snatch my phone from the table and replay it from the beginning, now desperate to give it another listen.
My heart pounds in my ears and my fingertips dig into the arms of my chair as the song plays.
