Page 25 of Poetry By Dead Men
"I’m sure I’ll see you around, Beth," Johnny says with a wink.
"Only come home if you decide to be less annoying," Bobby says, leading him to the door.
Johnny smiles and flips Bobby off, then turns and starts singing a song I’ve never heard before, his voice disappearing down the hallway.
I’m not the man I was this morning,
The one who wore the ground down pacing…
"Sorry about him," Bobby says, pouring a mug full of coffee from what’s clearly a hand-me-down coffee pot, then dumping in some milk and a three second pour from a bottle of lavender syrup he must have bought just for me. I can't help but smile at his thoughtfulness, even if it feels like he's avoiding looking at me as he ambles around, never quite turning in my direction.
"It’s not your normal fancy latte, but—"
"It’s perfect," I say genuinely as I snuggle into the corner of the couch. And I mean it. Really, I do. It’s perfect.He’sperfect. Except… Johnny’s words twist tighter in my stomach.That’s what he keeps saying, too... I shake the thought away. "So, um, I have a favor to ask you," I say, twisting my fingers together.
"Anything," he replies, pouring himself a cup of black coffee and coming to sit next to me. He positions himself on the other end of the couch, too far for our legs to touch, and I’m glad. I’m not sure I’d have the courage to ask him this if he was touching me.
"I have an assignment for school; for English class. We had to write something in a medium we’ve never tried before."
"Interesting… So, what did you choose? Slam poetry?" He finally looks at me. Apparently, all he needed was the opportunity to tease me to banish whatever tension Johnny caused.
"Actually, I did that last month," I say. "It was terrible. This time, I um… Well, I chose to write a song."
A dimple appears in Bobby’s cheek and my heart shoots into my throat as he leans back to study me. "You, Beth Winters, self-proclaimed drowning cat, have written a song?"
"I have." I ignore his ribbing. "It’s umm…" Blood warms my cheeks, and I let my hair fall in front of my eyes. “It’s a love song. I thought maybe you could look at it for me. Tell me if it’s any good? We have to read it to the class, and you know how I feel about having a bunch of eyes on me. Ireallydon’t want to get up there if it’s terrible."
"You’re not going to sing it?" he teases.
I lower my voice. “I want to get a good grade on this. Not fail.”
“Fail? I’d never let that happen," he crinkles his brow as if offended. "Orlet you write a terrible song. Hand it over."
"You can’t laugh, okay? I need you to promise." I think I might actually throw up.
"Beth, there is no way anything you wrote in any medium is bad, and if by some miracle it is, it’ll just make me like you more. Make you seem a bit more… on my level."
Like memore. He shifts closer to me as he says it, and I panic. How muchdoeshe like me? And is it as a friend, or more? But it can’t be more, right? Because if that were the case, wouldn’t he have said so by now?
Bobby must mistake my spinning thoughts for nerves as his expression turns serious. "Beth, I promise I won't laugh."
I take a deep breath, then pull the folded piece of paper from my jacket pocket. It’s creased and worn, a little tattered on the corner from how many times I’ve opened and closed it. I’ve been working on it all week, carrying it with me for when inspiration struck.
"Be nice." I hand it to Bobby, and he unfolds it carefully, like he already thinks it's special.
He quirks an eyebrow. "You titled the song 'Poetry?' Why am I not surprised?" His eyes shine as he settles back, picking up his coffee.
"You said you wouldn't laugh."
"Have I laughed? Now shh," he teases, his eyes scanning the paper, and my mouth goes dry. It’s unreasonable how handsome he looks right now, his ankle casually slung over his knee, settled in on his leather couch with his guitars hanging above his head. My belly warms as he shifts, and I watch his lips move, silently reading the words I’ve written and rewritten at least a dozen times.
"You actually wrote this?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "This isn’t from some old album somewhere and you plagiarized the lyrics, trying to convince me you're a better songwriter than I am?"
"Every word is mine." My skin buzzes, and I smile so wide, my cheeks hurt. "You're not full of crap? Really? You like it?"
"Amazing," he says again, setting his coffee cup down and lifting the page to reread it. "Just amazing," his voice is rough as he repeats the word he always seems to use to describe anything I write.
"Don’t you lie to me, Bobby Beckett. I don't want you trying to make me feel good here."
