Page 28 of Missed Exit

And all of a sudden, Law’s right back on center stage in my head.

I can’t write about him. Or us. All the best country or Americana songs about relationships are about the painful end or the mess in the middle, not the thrill at the beginning.

If that’s even what we’re doing. We haven’t put a label on it. We just keep doing it.

And doing it. And . . .

Even if I could sell a song about a new relationship, I’ve already written one of those. My catalogue needs to be diversified.

I didn’t write my only finished song about Brick. He and I were already long past all the initial attraction stuff. I think I wrote it about what I was longing for, the life I wished I was living.

The life I’m living now comes a lot closer to those lyrics.

What if that’s my problem? Maybe I can’t write when I’m happy. I’ve never bought into the genius of the emotionally tormented artist, but it was a lot easier to write a happy song when I was unhappy than it is to write a sad one now.

I guess I could try to create a smoldering, sexy song without obsessing about the emotions. Could that work on its own? Does anybody even want that?

It seems like every other new hit is an upbeat let’s-go-to-the-club-and-do-shotties-with-the-hotties pop-country chart climber. Nothing wrong with those, but it’s not something I’ll probably ever write. I used to love some of those songs back when I was going out with the girls a lot.

Then, along came Brick, and I lost the desire for those kinds of nights, and those kinds of songs lost their appeal.

At this point in my life, I’d rather write about a dog breaking his leash to chase a ball. I should’ve gotten his name.

I drag the tines of my fork through the frosting on my cake, making a heart and then a question mark. As I watch the lines form, I think of my fingernails running down Law’s back, his scruffy jaw marking my inner thighs and my neck . . .

Now, that’s the stuff that belongs in a song.

It’s not enough, though. Not even for a song.

Sex is never enough. It’s usually the first thing to fade.

Then again, for some people, it’s the only good thing that stays. In those toxic relationships that have a chokehold on some couples. That crazy love that isn’t love at all. I have a friend who spent years in a broken relationship like that.

Maybe I should be glad the sex faded between Brick and me; not that it was ever that great to begin with, now that I look back on it. Now that I have something so much better to compare it to. Hell, I had better before him, too. Maybe that’s why it was easier to let go of whatever we had left. So many maybes.

We weren’t great together. But we stuck around long enough to get comfortable. We put in the time and knew all the mundane stuff, like which allergy medicine the other preferred and the name of the coworker they couldn’t stand.

Would’ve been helpful if I’d known I was the only one whose sex life had gone stale.

I should’ve never judged my friend for staying when she just had a different type of comfort. Maybe our own lived experiences are all we can ever truly understand.

But why do people put themselves through hell when there’s nothing beyond the physical? What is it that draws people back into those black holes of heartbreak just for another round of hot sex?

Am I that boring? Or are they just addicted to the darkness of an obsessive attraction?

Without another thought, I pick up my pen.

The Way I Love the Dark

It’s a stunner of a sunrise

The promise of a clean start

Birds singin’ in the trees

As a clear dawn breaks

Know it’s a light that should fill my heart

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