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He disappears in the kitchen, and I slide out the chair for Jace, who snorts a laugh. “Who’s the girlfriend here?”
“I’m only your rebound, remember?” I nudge him into the seat.
“I feel underdressed for this.” He spreads the napkin on his lap.
“Really? What would you rather wear? It’s just a dinner at my house.”
“It feels like I need a pair of slacks and a button-up at minimum.”
I try hard to imagine him in dressier clothes, but it doesn’t work. His barely combed hair and an athletic tee won’t allow it. To me, Jace is a hurricane that bears no formalities.
“Hey.” He seems to read my thoughts. “I look dope in a tux.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
He cocks an eyebrow, and I hope it means he accepts my challenge.
Reese brings out our dinner—a green salad with berries and a sprinkling of candied nuts, roast fingerling potatoes, and salmon in a creamy sauce. I ready myself for Jace to huff at the fish, but he tucks away at everything without a pause to breathe. I love that he acts comfortable, a person who knows who he is and has no need to be shy when he’s out of his usual element.
“All right.” After we finish dessert—pecan ice cream with caramel drizzle, I hook my arm through Jace’s and take him to our studio. “Tell me what you think. And don’t be gentle.”
“I will forget what gentle means,” he promises with a hand over his heart.
“There’s one more thing.” Fear trickles down my spine.
“What is it?”
“I stole your lyrics.”
He stops in the middle of the hallway. My heartbeat commandeers all other senses while I try to explain. “Please forgive me. I know it’s ultra rude. We agreed to use your music, and you said those lines were garbage, but I loved so many of them.”
Jace rubs his chin, thoughtful.
I want to reach for him and hold him so bad, to keep him by my side and apologize again. I crossed a line that’s a big taboo in the world of creatives. “And I will never claim it, I promise. The copyright is all yours.”
He shrugs. “Let me hear it.”
Relief mixing with surprise that he’s not flipping out, I continue to the studio.
I played around with the words for weeks, but now that we’re listening to them together, they strike with a different mood.
Would that we were different
That I didn’t love you
That you didn’t cut me
That I didn’t hurt you
That you didn’t haunt me
Headphones on, Jace sits on the edge of the desk, frowning into the distance. I spin on my chair, unable to contain the agitation. The words don’t represent us, but they’re also no longer just syllables I molded to flow better. They open a window to my soul and what I want to know about Jace’s heartbreak. Especially the chorus.
Do you remember how it started?
Do you remember how we ignited?
Do you still carry the pain that stitched us together?
