Page 88 of One More Made Up Love Song
I am nervous for so many reasons, I can’t even begin to list them all. But I’m excited too. And there’s a strange, buzzy energy around Freddie that makes me think he feels the same way, which weirdly helps me feel better.
A tiny voice in the back of my head keeps suggesting I’m making things up, but I don’t actually think that’s true.
Not anymore.
Wayne begrudgingly gave us permission to travel without him, but it was no small feat to convince him. We’re allowed to spend one night at my parents’ house, then we’re driving straight home. No stops on the way there or the way back. No snack breaks or bathroom breaks, even for emergencies.
Wayne made me promise on that last point, which feltabsolutely ridiculous, but then he blocked the front door and scowled until we all went to the bathroom before we left the house, so I don’t doubt his seriousness. It wouldn’t surprise me if he tracks Freddie’s phone the entire time and calls us the second we veer off course.
“Your tires look good,” Wayne says through my open window. “But if anything happens, youonlycall me. Understood?”
“Yes, Dad,” I say, and he scowls one more time.
“Bye, Wayne,” Freddie says, leaning across me to make eye contact with his head of security. “Enjoy a couple days off. You deserve it.”
He mumbles something incoherent, then finally steps away from the car.
I start down Freddie’s long, winding driveway, but I haven’t made it a hundred feet before Carina leans up from the backseat and grabs my phone.
“Hey,” I say, meeting her gaze through the rearview mirror.
“If I don’t get the front seat, I at least get to control the music,” she says.
“I don’t mind if you sit in the front,” Freddie says, but I quickly shake my head.
“Don’t let her guilt you,” I say. “You’re six feet tall. You get to sit in the front.” I look at Carina one more time. “Just don’t pick anything stupid.”
The touchscreen on the car flickers to life and shows the connection to my phone. Then Midnight Rush’s first album blasts through the speakers, Freddie’s very young, very high, barely pubescent voice on lead vocals.
He winces, then groans. “Geez. I don’t think I can hit any of those notes anymore.”
Carina laughs. “I’m not even sureIcan hit those notes.”
“We don’t have to listen to this if you don’t want to,” I say, but Freddie only grins.
“Nah. It’s fun. We can see how many of the words I remember.”
Turns out that number is impressively high. He sings pretty much every word, making it easy for Carina and me to join in.
When we reach the end of the album, he looks over at me and grins. “Not a fan, huh? Isn’t that what you told me when we met?”
Heat climbs up my cheeks. “What? Why do you say that?”
“This is old music, Ivy. And you know it.”
“Just because I wasn’t a fan doesn’t mean I lived under a rock.”
“You just sang every single word of every single song,” he says. “That doesn’t happen without some effort.”
“I did not sing every word,” I practically huff.
“Yeah, you did,” Carina says. “When did that happen? You really weren’t a fan when we were kids.”
“See?” I say to Freddie. “I didn’t lie to you.”
“So, you’ve been listening to Midnight Rush since then?” he asks. The amusement in his voice makes me want to punch him directly in the nose. Except his nose is far too pretty to risk breaking it, so maybe a punch in the gut would be better. ButthenI would feel his abs, and that feels more dangerous, so maybe Ishouldbreak his nose.
“Your silence is telling, Ivy,” Freddie says. “I think I figured you out. You started listening to my musicafterwe met. Was I really that charming?”
