Page 59 of Hollow Heart

“Was nice meeting you,” Felix chirps as Bobby shuts the door, running toward the bright red bug.

I watch as it drives off, feeling more alone than ever.

There’s so much I don’t know.

So much Ishouldknow.

“My guy should be finishing up with your car. Should have it fixed and delivered before Bobby gets home tonight.” Felix says, his voice cutting through the ominous silence.

I turn to look at him, to tell him no. He doesn’t have to do this, any of this.

I’m tired. I’m spent.

“You don’t have to?—”

Felix dismisses me with a wave. “It’s fine, really. It’s... it’s the least I can do.”

Silence falls between us for a moment as he takes his aviators off, his bright blue eyes fixing their gaze on me as his expression softens.

“I assume you have a studio in there,” he says softly.

I nod slowly. “Of course.”

“Cool. We can jam a bit, while we wait for your truck to be delivered.”

I want to argue with him, but I’m in no mood to argue, so I just say, “Okay,” and open my car door.

Felix follows suit as I grab my duffel bag, fishing my house keys out of my pocket.

My blood rushes as I walk up the sidewalk, and I know it’s not just from the heat.

My hands shake only a bit as I try to open the door, but thankfully, my larger frame hides me from Felix’s sight.

I open the door, glancing into the entryway, and then back at Felix, who looks a bit pale.

Maybe all thefro-yoand the mountain of candy on top of it paralyzed him.

That weird tension is back, but thankfully, it is interrupted by Felix’s phone ringing. I don’t waste a moment as I head inside, leaving the door open, leaving Felix on my doorstep.

CHAPTER 15

Duncan

With the adrenalineand sugar running through me, the last thing I can focus on is music.

Not to mention, for some reason Felix being in my studio makes me nervous, so I opt to let him jam out on the couch while I busy myself with making us something to eat.

Marci always said it was impolite to have guests and not feed them, and I don’t want to seem like a bad host.

Especially, given the fact that in the last twenty four hours Felix has defended me on national television, rescued me from the pitfalls of automobile hell, apparently, had my car fixed, and successfully delivered us all home in one piece without getting a fucking ticket, which is still a damn miracle.

The man must have been a race car driver in a previous life.

I watch as Felix strums away on my last project, a refurb of a Fender from ‘86.

The lime green color stands out against the hot pink and black, and it looks strangely fitting for him.

Maybe it’s because I’m tired and this day has been hell, but I can’t help the words that fall out of my mouth as I watch him play.

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