Page 30 of Resist

Fuck!

FOURTEEN

Ry and I have barely spoken. I have nothing else to say to him, and he’s uncharacteristically quiet. Sometimes I worry, but then I remember that’s not my place. I don’t leave, though, I don’t give up, and we start practicing for the tour around the clock, leaving little time for anything else. When I’m not practicing, I’m writing new songs, feeling more inspired than ever before.

I guess heartbreak is good for one thing.

The words flow onto the page. I know he’ll have to sing them, and that only seems to spur me on.

Po has tried to talk to us, wanting to know what’s wrong, but we ignore him, while Strike and Dash are doing their best to keep us together.

“Here.” Strike thrusts a drink at me, and I look up, my back to the studio wall.

“Thanks.” I shut my notebook and take a drink as he lowers to his ass next to me. Dash and Ry are talking to Po in the other room, and I watch them for a moment before looking away.

“You aren’t leaving, are you?” Strike asks, making my head swing to him.

“No,” I reply. “I just can’t.” I trail off, unsure how to end that sentence.

“Love him anymore,” he finishes for me as he glances at Ry. “I get it. What he did was fucked up, but you didn’t see him, Fox. He was so scared. I’ve never seen Ry like that. He wouldn’t stop crying and calling you. I’m not saying what he did was right, but maybe he’s starting to realize he has feelings for you. The question is, is he too late?”

I don’t have an answer for that, and we lapse into silence.

“New songs?” he asks, indicating my notebook.

“Yeah, just some ideas,” I reply, and I hand it over. I used to be worried about others reading them, but there’s no embarrassment between friends. We’ve seen the worst and best of each other. Lyrics have this raw capacity to capture your life and inner feelings, and I fear these ones reveal more about me than most, but as he reads them, his eyes widen.

“Fuck, Fox, these are incredible.” He looks up at me, licking his lips as he seems to debate something. “You should have him sing one today.”

“No, I . . .”

“Yes, he might understand.” He hands it back to me. “Your choice, but I think it would be good for both of you.” Standing, he heads back over to the others, and I meet Ryker’s eyes, noticing he’s watching us.

Is Strike right?

My eyes are locked on Ryker. He’s read the song I picked. It’s in front of him now, ready for him to sing. The ballad is slower than what we are used to, but Po read it and demanded we add it to the set for the tour. Ryker glances at me, and something I can’tcomprehend flashes in his gaze. I can’t turn away, and neither does he.

We run through the melody a couple of times before we dive into it, and then his crooning voice comes out, singing my lyrics about heartbreak.

About the person you love falling into strangers’ beds.

There’s something therapeutic about the person who hurt you singing the song you wrote about them. When it’s over, he looks at me with tears in his eyes, and I finally look away.

We practice it again and again, our eyes locked together as he sings the tale of my broken heart.

The one he broke.

Hands of another, all the while wishing it was me.

I see you falling in and out of love each night.

And I crave that feeling, crave your eyes on me.

Stolen moments that we don’t speak of.

Enough to make up a lifetime.

But not enough to call it love.

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