Page 53 of Loaded

It takes me a few hours, but I compress it all into an AABA format, and I add a coda at the end, complete with a lift for the last few lines. Now the scary part—I have to add words.

“What just happened?” Jake asks.

I startle.

He’s been here this whole time?

“Did you just write a whole song—start to finish—in two and a half hours?”

“Of course not,” I say. “It has no words, and I started it last night.”

Jake’s shaking his head. “That was amazing.”

I roll my eyes. “Stop.”

“I failed you.” Jake’s always kidding around, but he doesn’t look like he is right now.

“Stop,” I say. “You’re being weird.”

“You looked—” He sighs. “You lookedpossessed.”

“I’m sure I always look like that when I’m composing.”

“I know you probably need to go to work soon, but. . .” He whistles. “That was something to watch.”

“Work!” I swear under my breath and scramble to get ready, nixing the shower. After dropping yesterday’s shift, I cannot be late. But even as I pull on pants andbutton down my shirt, the song’s still rolling around in my head, like it’s seeking for lyrics.

Something scary is happening.

Words are forming.

Words that fit the melodyandthe harmony. Words that mean something. Words people could dissect to try and figure out what I’m feeling. Words that will betray who I am to people I don’t even know.

Words that could come back to bite me.

I’m too afraid to write any down, and I don’t have time in any case. But as I screech into my parking spot, there are a few words I can’t seem to help typing out. They aren’t lyrics, but they’re just as scary.

After completely ignoring him for a long time, I finally text Easton back. IF YOU STILL WANT TO. . .I COULD MAYBE GO ON A DATE.

My finger trembles as I hit send, and then I stuff my phone in my pocket and jog into work. There aren’t any extra workers today, praise be, and my shift is pretty uncomplicated. At least, until my very last table.

When I reach it, Easton’s sitting there.

There’s a huge bouquet of pale pink roses wrapped in bright mauve paper on the table in front of him. “Why, hello,” he says. “You know they tried to give me another waitress?” He shakes his head. “I set them straight.” He’s smiling.

To my great dismay, so am I.

“I told them I’m unable to select my own food, and I only trust one person to feed me.”

I offer him a menu.

He laughs. “No thanks.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“You’re not the first person to tell me that,” he says. “But you are the cutest.”

My face heats immediately. “I have three questions you need to answer.”

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