Page 73 of The Sound of Us

“I called itThe Sound of Us.” He held it up for me to see and I quickly scanned the first few tracks. “It’s our story.”

“I can hardly wait to hear it.”

As the first notes of John Legend’s “All of Me” filled the room, Dante moved down my body. His first kiss was on the worst of my scars, and then he followed the mottled rainbow of white and red and silver that streaked me from hip to ankle, his lips pressing softly on every inch of my skin. He lifted each of my feet and kissed my toes, my calves, the sensitive creases behind my knees. His rough stubble against the soft skin of my inner thighs made me gasp and beg for his mouth where I was wet and aching for him all over again, but he only teased me with hot breaths and whispered promises for later in the night. He knelt between my legs and feathered kisses over my mound, my hips, my belly, and curve of my waist. He spent a long time on my nipples, sucking and licking each one into a hard peak before he trailed butterfly kisses along the undersides of my breasts, the valley between andthe soft crescents above. Finally, he moved to the hollow at the base of my throat, my jaw, my chin, my cheeks, my forehead, a nip on my earlobes, and then, yes, finally, he came back to my mouth.

“Look at me, Skye.”

I hadn’t even realized I had closed my eyes, but there he was, his pupils dark but full of light, looking at me as if I were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“That’s… it’s perfect.” His playlist was everything—deeply emotional, thoughtfully curated, exquisitely crafted, perfect in every way. It was about hope and longing and loss and love. It thrilled me and scared me at the same time. “I’ll have to make you a playlist now,” I said kissing his lips, so he didn’t speak the words he’d shared in his songs.

“Do you know what I want to hear?” He rubbed his nose against my cheek, a sweet, intimate gesture that I felt deep in my heart. “The soundtrack of your life.”

I had always imagined meeting someone who wanted to hear the soundtrack of my life—the roadmap of the major milestones that got me to where I was at that moment in time—because it meant they truly wanted to know me. There was no point denying it existed, and I was sure he had one, too.

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“Deal.” He rolled to his side, propping his head on his elbow. “First song.”

“The Dora the Explorer theme song. I was three or four years old, and I remember standing outside my foster parents’ bedroom door in the middle of the night belting out ‘Doo doo doo doo doo DORA!’ I think that’s why they sent me away.”

“You’re too adorable to send away,” he said, feathering a kiss over my nose.

“You just want more sex,” I huffed. “Your turn.”

“‘Yellow Submarine.’ My mom had a yellow car, and we sang that song every time we went for a long drive. We thought they were fun road trips, but she was keeping us from my dad when he came home drunk.”

I squeezed his hand. “She sounds like a brave and loving mom giving you joy in the worst of times.”

His faced smoothed, eyes shuttering for the briefest of moments. Then he said, “You’re stalling. Next song.”

“ABBA’s greatest hits.”

“Seriously,” he said. “How old are you really?”

“I loved ABBA because my mom loved ABBA and I loved Coleman Hawkins and Frank Sinatra because of my dad.”

“My mom loved musicals,” Dante said. “We listened to the soundtracks toMoulin Rouge,The Sound of Music, andWest Side Storyon the way to school. My favorite wasLes Misérables. I used to imagine singing ‘Do You Hear the People Sing?’ in front of my dad as a kind of defiant family uprising.”

“Dante…” I cupped his jaw, rubbed my thumb over his bristles as if I could take away his pain.

“Sorry, buttercup.” He turned into my hand and kissed my palm. “This is supposed to fun.”

“It’s supposed to be real,” I said quietly. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

“What’s next on your playlist?” he asked, turning back to look at me. “It’s tween time.”

“Katy Perry’s ‘Roar.’ I felt like I’d been given the words to express all my complicated tween feelings.”

“You as a tween…” Dante shook his head. “I can’t imagine.”

“I was a good tween. Five years after the adoption, I was still afraid my parents would send me away.”

“I was a mess.” He toyed with a strand of my hair, twisting it around his finger. “My mom had just died. I missed her so much. I spent the first few months playing David Guetta’s ‘Without You’ on repeat.”

Emotion welled up in my throat. It was a song about loss, about not being able to go on without the person you love. I moved closer and wrapped my arms around Dante, pulling him into a hug. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“It got better when my middle school teacher offered to teachme bass,” he said, burying his face in my hair. “Green Day’s ‘Welcome to Paradise’ always reminds me of those days.”

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