Page 131 of Branded
Then again, she was pregnant.
“No,” she said softly. “It hasn’t been this bad before.”
A pause, a female voice in the background.
“Yes, a-a friend,” she said once that female voice stopped, “is driving me. Yes, I’ll do that.” Another beat. “Okay, thank you.”
I glanced over, saw her hand drop away from her ear, the cell phone’s screen showing the call had ended, and I braced, expecting her to tear into me. But she didn’t, just turned toward the window and stared out the glass and went completely quiet.
So quiet that I couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand hearing the tires rolling over the asphalt, the bumps from the potholes—because city fucking roads—and leaned forward, flicking the knob on the radio.
My playlist began sliding through the air, Black Hole Sun picking up right in the middle.
Talking about washing away the rain and warmth being gone.
The perfect song for my mood, for my life.
So perfect, so fucking haunting and captivating that I didn’t immediately recognize Beth had gone still.
Statue still.
Her gaze still on whatever was on the other side of that glass, but not seeing it now.
No, somewhere inside me, I knew she was captivated by the lyrics, by the haunting voice, by the song that sliced right through my middle.
“You like Soundgarden?” I asked when the song wound down, fading into the background, drifting into Creedence, which was kickass because Creedence always was, but it didn’t slice through me in the same way Chris Cornell’s voice did.
A jerk, her eyes remaining away from me, and the tone of her voice had me wishing she would turn toward me, toss one of her cocky smiles my way.
“Yeah.”
Just yeah.
“I thought—” I didn’t know why I was still talking. I should be thankful she’d shut up and wasn’t giving me any lip.
Her shoulders inched up.
I pressed on. “You’d like Madonna or something.”
Silence.
Then, “I do like Madonna and 98 Degrees and the Beatles and Creedence Clearwater Revival,” she said, tilting her head toward the radio, though still not looking at me. “And Lizzo and Bieber and Stellar and random bands I find on Spotify who hardly have any streams, but their songs kick butt.” A shrug. “I’m a Swiftie, and I dance to J-Lo. But I’m also down for Mötley Crew and Bruce and the Temptations. If it has a beat, I’ll shake my ass to it or clap my hands or stomp my feet.”
That wasn’t the most words she’d ever said at once.
Not to me. Not even in my vicinity.
But it was the most words she’d given me that provided me an insight into her mind.
An insight I didn’t want but now had bouncing around my brain anyway.
She liked music.
She liked many different kinds of it.
She…
Was crying.
