Page 72 of Our Final Encore

“But you always did it all at once?” My brow wrinkles as I glance over at him.

He looks a bit confused, and I wonder if I’ve said too much. Is it weird that I remember that?

He and I would spend hours writing together, and part of his process was always finding which chord progression matched up with the words he’d written down. I guess it makes sense that he would do it differently now, though.

“Yeah…” he scratches the back of his neck. He looks a bit nervous, almost embarrassed. “I don’t write much anymore, honestly.”

“You don’t?” My head tilts.

“I haven’t written a whole song in almost a year.”

I nod, even though I have no idea which song he’s referring to. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

He shrugs. “I kind of assumed you would’ve noticed, but I don’t know why you would.”

“I haven’t listened to any of your music since we broke up,” I say before placing the lid on my pot and turning the stove down to simmer. I turn around, leaning against the stove, and he’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, his mouth in a straight line.

“That’s kind of ironic. The girl I’ve written all of my songs for hasn’t even heard most of them.”

For me?It’s hard to imagine he was still writing songs for meafter we broke up. After he left, even though I knew many of his first songs were about me, I no longer felt like they were. I felt like they were for the world. For the girls in the crowd at his shows that were singing along. Definitely not for me.

“I was afraid to listen to them,” I worry my lip between my teeth, shrugging.

His brows arch. “Why?”

“I thought you’d probably be writing songs about someone else, and I didn’t want to be reminded of the fact that you’d moved on.” I remember the song I heard him playing at Hondo’s that night, part of me wondered if he was singing about me or someone else. Even though I wanted to pretend like I didn’t care, the thought of him writing those words about someone else destroyed me.

He chuckles a humorless laugh, and somehow the sound sends tingles down my spine. His eyes are dark and filled with regret as they stare straight into my soul. “Trust me, if you heard any of them you’d know I never moved on.”

The intensity of his stare makes me gulp, and I have to force myself to turn around and check on my rice.

He clears his throat. “I can order us some food, if you want.”

I glance at the clock above the stove. “It’s already 9:30. Nothing in this town delivers this late.”

“There’s always pizza.”

My stomach growls when he says pizza and suddenly my rice sounds like the least appetizing food ever. Not that I can’t fix it up with some soy sauce or something, but…it’s not pizza. “Are you sure?”

“Opal, you’re growing my kid in there, it’s my job to make sure you’re getting enough to eat. Not that pizza is the most nutritious meal, but it’s better than plain rice.”

I’m so tempted to keep up my sassy front, tell him that I’m capable of taking care of myself. But truthfully, he’s right, and it’s sweet that he actually cares.

Part of me is tired of fighting my feelings towards him, I’m tired of pretending to be independent. I’m tired of acting like I don’t care about him or miss him. But it’s the only way I know how to protect my heart.

“Okay, if you don’t mind.” My lips tip up into a small grin.

“Thank god.” He pulls his phone out and starts tapping the screen. “Still like mushrooms and pepperoni?”

“Yep.”

Thirty minutes later our pizza arrives, and I don’t even try to hide how ravenously hungry I am. I’ve hardly eaten all day aside from some lousy hospital food.

“Thanks for the food,” I say after I’m fully sated and laying on the couch, my feet kicked up on the ottoman. “Even though that pizza is gonna give me the world’s worst heartburn.”

He smiles, stuffing his hands into his pockets. I expect him to sit beside me, but he stands across the room like he’s about to leave. I don’t know why he wouldn’t, it’s late and he’s probably exhausted after the long day we had. But for some reason, I still don’t really want him to.

“I guess I’ll head home,” he nods toward the door.

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