Page 5 of Sing for Me
Then she's not.
The only time I let the grief seep in is duringIn Pieces. It's the only time I'm safe enough to let down the dam holding back every ounce of agony.
I catch his name in the credits of one of those lyrics sites. Miles Webb.
It's like he's holding me, this Miles guy.
But that's ridiculous.
How can a man I've never met, who I will never meet, give me this kind of comfort?
I want more of him.
All of him.
He's a Google search away. I'm tempted to look into his life, to see how he interviews, to see what he looks like. But every time I get the urge to pore into his online presence, something stops me.
The relationship we have right now—him singing for me, me letting his words pour into my soul—is perfect. More information could only ruin it. What if he's a cocky jerk? What if he's a manwhore? What if he has more ego than Kanye? What if he bashes his exes with more vitriol than every Taylor Swift album combined?
This is what I want.
He gets me.
I get him.
I don't ask him for anything but his voice in my ears, his words in my soul.
He doesn't ask anything of me but my appreciation, my need, my consideration.
I resist for a long, long time.
Then the band drops a music video. Spotify reminds me everyday. Pandora too. I resist for days. Weeks.
I go to work. I see Kara on Sundays. I fill the rest of my time with anything I can find.
One night I get home late, tired and in desperate need of comfort. And there's Spotify again, reminding me about the new Sinful Serenade music video. There's a shot of a man in a lonely room, his face obscured by a broken door frame, his naked torso exposed.
Dammit. I'm only human.
I play the video.
It's in black and white. A sparse bedroom, the window open, the sheer curtains blowing. And there's his back. Miles. He's pressing his palms into the window frame, his muscles taut, his strong shoulders tense with months of sleepless nights.
He turns. The camera catches the side of his face. His shoulder. The tattoo snaking down his chest and over his obliques. He's just wearing jeans. They're slung low around his narrow hips.
Even in the soft lighting, the lines of his torso are clear.
He's incredibly defined.
And those tattoos covering his chest and arms...
The hot rock star in only jeans is a cheap attempt at getting attention.
But there's also something intimate about it.
I'm watching him trapped in this room, restless and empty and out of his head. He's trapped in that lonely room. But, really, it doesn't matter where he is or who's around.
He's trapped in his lonely head.
