Page 67 of August Lane
Luke rubbed his neck, then ran his hand over his hair. It was gettinglonger, forming cute little spirals. “The way you talk makes me wonder if I ever had an actual emotion at all. How do you come up with this stuff?”
“Don’t overthink it,” she said, pulling her knees up to her chest. “Start with something personal. A moment that’s meaningful to you.”
Luke stiffened. “Personal how?”
“Like your relationship with Jessica.” She’d thought about this last night. Despite the minor crush she had on Luke, talking about the girl he actually wanted would be the quickest way to get something useful out of him. “Think about the day you met. Or when you kissed her for the first time.”
Luke looked pained. Like everything she’d listed was the last thing he wanted to talk about. “I don’t…” He grabbed a broken cat mask and crushed the ears in his fist. “There isn’t much of a story there.”
“I bet there is.”
“You’d lose that bet.”
“You’re being difficult.”
“I’m being honest.” He shrugged. “Everyone doesn’t have some grand love story. Sometimes you’re just—”
“Down to fuck?”
He paused. “That’s not what I was gonna say.”
“Sorry.” She lifted both hands. “Please continue. Sometimes you’re just what?”
“Some things just happen. Like… a door that’s left open, and it looks cool, so you… walk through.”
August stared at him. “Do you know how lazy that sounds?”
“I told you. There’s no story there.”
“There is! There always is. If something elicits a feeling, it’s a story. That’s how our brains work.” She cut off his protests with a silencing hand. “Let me give you an example.”
August grabbed her notebook, flipped to the front page, and handed it to him. “This is about my first kiss.”
Luke read it eagerly. “Fireflies?”
“I was only nine, so it was a completely innocent cheek peck. But it still counts. His name was Lawrence, and he was obsessed with bugs.”
The memory had faded in parts. She couldn’t remember his last name. His face was a mishmash of features that may have been pulled from other boys she grew up with. She did remember that he was staying with an aunt who lived in the duplexes filled with people who never stuck around for long.
“I didn’t have friends back then,” August said, but kept her eyes averted because Luke knew that had never changed. “And Lawrence was only visiting for the summer. He was so nice to me, and I wanted to keep that. I wanted to keep him. But it felt like trying to stop sand from escaping my hands. I was so lonely and—” August stopped because that felt like too much. Irrelevant to the lesson. Instead she said, “At night, we’d chase lightning bugs.”
Lawrence had asked her which bugs were her favorite. She told him she liked lightning bugs because they only showed up during the summer. “The day he left for good, he asked his aunt to stop by our house so he could say goodbye. But I didn’t want to watch him leave. I could hear him crying, begging his aunt to wait a little longer, but I knew that if I came out, I’d cry, too. It scared me. That kind of sadness still does. Makes me afraid I’ll never stop.”
The terrible choice still weighed on her. The instant regret. “Later that night, I found a jar of fireflies outside my window. I knew it was his way of saying don’t forget me. And so I wrote a song to make sure I didn’t.” She looked at the journal in Luke’s hand. “When the fireflies return / that’s when he finds her / Calling him home with a flickering light / She only gives to the summer.”
Luke didn’t speak. She still couldn’t look at him, and the silence was stifling. “Did you know fireflies only live a few weeks after they become adults?” She flipped the notebook pages, disrupting the moment with rustling paper. “Their lights are mating calls. So, they spend their entire adult life looking for someone to love before they—”
He grabbed her hand. “You’re amazing. Do you know that? Has anyone told you?”
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to give him an example, and he’d think about whichever girl was lucky enough to be his first. He wasn’t supposed to listen so closely.
“Stop distracting me with compliments,” she said, pulling her hand away. “You still need to write something.”
“I wasn’t doing that,” Luke said. “I mean, I was complimenting you, but it wasn’t a tactic. I honestly don’t think I can turn a moment into lyrics like that.” He reached for his guitar. “But I can do this.”
Luke started playing, and the notes floated into the air like those flickering bits of light she’d written about. He paused, pointed to the first verse, and played it again, singing along this time. His voice was hesitant, asking if this was what she meant.
August answered. She started singing, matching his key, but added all the feeling that had inspired the lyrics. Her voice grew louder, grittier at the chorus, which always happened when she set it free. It rolled over Luke’s baritone, and the unified sound rewired her senses. It was sweet in her mouth. It was plunging into cool water on the hottest day.
