Page 43 of Out of the Blue

She wraps her arms around my body, and I draw in her goodness. After much debate, I confess, “I can’t write anymore. Lyrics, I mean.”

“Now I understand.” She kisses my collarbone. “That’s why you weren’t excited when the rest of the band performed the new melodies. They expect you to write the words.” She hugs me, our bodies touching from head to toe.

I remain in her embrace, letting her words soothe my pain. “That’s what you do.”

She pulls herself away from my chest. “What do you mean? What do I do?”

“You calm me. You let me feel my feelings, without any judgment.”

She runs her fingers over my stubble-filled cheek. “Maybe because no one ever did that for me.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m here for you now.” I kiss her pliant mouth.

She settles into my body. “You’ve been a big help with all of the debts I’m responsible for, even though I didn’t rack them up. I want to help you out with this.”

She doesn’t mention all she’s done for me. She doesn’t need to. “That’s too much. You’re my girlfriend, not my therapist.” In fact, I haven’t had a follow-up session with my therapist since this gorgeous brunette bounded into my life.

“Maybe I want to help you. Maybe your successes make me feel like I’m a little bit of a success, too.” She raises onto her elbow.

Her words tug at my heart. “Come here.” I pull her closer and kiss the shit out of her. All hard lips and tongues and fingers. Loud moans preceding fast thrusts. Even a few spanks. And unparalleled mutual orgasms.

Once I’m showered and dressed, I click on the TV and sit on the bed staring at my empty lyric book. Cordy’s in the bathroom doing all her girly stuff, so I have another half-hour alone. At least. I flip open the blank book and stare at the blank lines. Fourteen of them. Well, the title takes up one, so thirteen left. What are my feelings toward the Light Rail?

Happiness.

Excitement.

Truancy.

Getting away with something.

Freedom.

I gawk at five lines of emotions related to the train. A song’s in here somewhere. Concentrating on the lines brings up nothing. I even recite a stupid nursery rhyme, and still nothing. Fuck.

From the side table, my girlfriend’s phone pings. Happy for the reprieve, I toss my journal onto the bed and roll over, seeing Juanita’s name in the text “from” line. She wrote, “You’re not going to believe this!” Not wanting to introduce myself to her sister over text, I leave Cordy’s phone lying on the table.

Returning to the lyric book, I stare at the ideas until a few minutes later, Cordy walks out of the bathroom. She’s wearing a pair of tight black jeans and one of TLR’s tees. “You look good enough to eat.” I pat my lap.

She strides over and straddles me, resting her rear end on my thighs while wrapping her arms around my neck. Giggling, she replies, “I think you already did that. Twice.”

“Third time’s a charm.”

“Later, stud. We have work to do today.” She gives me a kiss and dismounts.

At her reminder, all my ardor floods out of my body. I love playing music with my buds, but it’s getting harder and harder to open for my father’s band. Braxton is everywhere, and I need him gone. Out of my life like he used to be.

Correction. He used to be one of my idols. His talent’s off the charts. Before I read my mother’s fucking diary, I would’ve been over the moon to open for them. Now, I ping pong between wanting this ordeal over, and craving for my band to win the damn competition. Of course, my loyalties lie with TLR.

Deliberately ignoring my lyric book, I turn on the TV where a faceless voice-over admonishes everyone to add an ICE—In Case of Emergency—contact on their phones. A sinking feeling runs through me, and I pick up my cell. Sure enough, Mom’s still listed as mine. I glance at my girlfriend, and thumb some buttons. There. No need to tell her, since I’m sure it’ll never be used. Makes me feel good, though.

My attention strays to my lyric book for another five minutes. Not able to concentrate on my own work, I find myself behind Cordy at the desk. Pushing her hair back, I kiss her neck. She shudders and leans against me. Peering over her shoulder, I ask, “So, what are you doing today?”

“Well, I’m checking over responses to our rebuttal about Maurice’s eyesight, then working on a blog post and related content to promote the unveiling of the origins of your band’s name. Thought I’d also curate some photos I’ve taken but haven’t used yet and create a video montage backed by one of your songs.” She stares at the lyric book I left on the bed. “What are your plans?”

“We have a rehearsal, but no concert tonight. Maybe I can persuade you to help me explore the town of—” My voice trails off. “Where are we?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.” She pulls a piece of paper out of her bag. “We’re in Burlington, Vermont.”

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