Page 39 of All Your Firsts Without Me

She slides closer to me, pretending to read the titles. “Well, I guess I was wondering how you wroteAlone in the Dark, it’s as if you were living inside my head.”

“Can I show you? Tomorrow after we do our thing at the nursing home?” My heart is beating a million miles an hour.

“Do you like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?” she asks.

I laugh at her abrupt change in topic. “Uh, yeah, I guess. I haven’t had one since I was a kid.” Her golden eyes tell me she is happy with my answer.

“Okay, I’ll bring lunch, then you can show me.”

A rush of relief rolls off me. God, I didn’t realize how tightly I’d been holding myself together all week until right now. I might collapse right here at her feet.

April squeezes my arm gently. “Breathe,” she whispers.

“Okay, yeah. Tomorrow.”

“I’ll see you then.” She walks away, stopping at the end of the aisle. “I hope you find something good to read.”

Resting my hand against the shelf, I give her a smile of thanks.

She’s forgiven me.

Instead of reading my book that night, I lie in bed, staring at the photo I stole from the bar. She’s smiling, her arm around David’s sister. She’s stunning. Her lips are red, her hair curled to perfection. She looks like a pin-up model from the fifties.

I tuck the picture under my pillow for safe keeping before turning out the light.

Tomorrow is a big day. It’s time to continue what David began. We talked about this moment. I wasn’t sure I should tell her how I wrote the song, but he thought it would be an important part of her healing. It’s time to scratch at the surface a bit more.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

April

Westin’s smile is blindingly bright as he enters the room at the nursing home. I’ve tucked myself in the back behind two older ladies, hoping he doesn’t spot me. I want to see how he interacts with them. And if I’m being honest, I want to hear him sing again. It’s a shame, he’s a brilliant songwriter yet doesn’t record any of his own songs. He should be the one up on stage singing them.

“Hey guys. I got some new material to try out.”

They all clap and shout their praise for his talents. It makes me smile when his cheeks turn pink at the compliments.

I was being honest with him when I told him I had listened to his songs a million times. I have. They’re amazing. His words soothe my troubled soul. They always have; I just didn’t know he was the one writing them.

It seems I can’t get Westin out of my mind and that makes me feel terrible. I should be grieving my dead husband, not lying on the floor daydreaming about another man while listening to his songs. But then I tell myself this is what David wanted. What he himself orchestrated.

A few light strums on the guitar pull me from my thoughts. I peek around the two women in front of me. I’m mesmerized by his hands. They are big, large enough I suppose to catch a football. I read about his tragedy online. He was a star running back. Everyone expected great things from him. That is, until the accident. A tear slides down my cheek as I think about him losing both of his parents that night. The article didn’t say much else.

It seems Westin likes his privacy. Me too. My publisher has been hounding me to do a few book signings, but my answer is always the same. I know my story might help someone, but it’s too much. If David was still alive, I might have been able to get through it, but without his glue, I can’t risk it.

Anyhow, back to his hands. God, they’re beautiful. I think they’re much better suited to playing the guitar than holding a football. He starts to sing, drawing my eyes up his frame. His eyes are closed as I watch his lips move. The music is a living, breathing thing inside of him.

A shiver runs up my body as if it’s connected to his voice.

I close my eyes. The darkness behind my lids offers the illusion that it’s just him and I. What I wouldn’t give for him to sing to me like this. As I listen to the words, I realize he is singing to me. When my eyes open, a pair of sea glass ones are staring back at me.

He drops his head, shyly, his dark hair falling over one of his eyes. When he glances up, the corner of his mouth curls into a grin. My own goes dry as he continues to sing to me. I shift on the cold metal chair. He is really sexy—I mean, cute. If you’re into that sort of thing. You know, dark hair, green eyes, and a smile that could melt the polar ice caps.

I break our eye contact and slide my hands under my legs, keeping my gaze fixed on my knees. Good grief. My dad was right. I’m a sinner. I shouldn’t be here, and I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about how good Westin looks. Right?

Westin continues to woo the crowd. And if I’m being honest, me too. He’s remarkable.

After he finishes, he walks over to me. “No, Lucky?” he asks.

---