Page 43 of Coach
He was loud, bright, and warm in ways I didn’t know how to hold.
Worse—he made mewantto hold them.
His damned smile flashed every time I closed my eyes, all bright and chipper and inviting, surrounded by those perfect lips, just plump enough to need kissing and sucking and . . .
Damn it.
I shook my head and turned toward the stereo in the corner, flipping it on and punching in a playlist like it owed me money.
Journey.
Always Journey.
Something about the way Steve Perry sang felt safe, like someone else was willing to carry whatever I couldn’t say. The songs knew how to bleed, but they didn’t ask me to. They filled the space just enough to drown the thoughts while demanding nothing in return.
“Don’t Stop Believin’” kicked in with its bright piano and crisp rhythm. Usually that opening was enough. It got me back into my body.
But not that day.
In those moments, the melody felt thin, the drums hit too sharp, the lyrics rang hollow, like they belonged to someone younger, softer, someone who still believed in things likenew beginningsandhappy endings.
It wasn’t Journey’s fault. They just weren’t built to save a man from himself.
I leaned against the workbench and let the chorus hit.
“Streetlights, people. Livin’ just to find emotion . . .”
I used to believe that. A little. I think I did. Back before everything got so quiet in my chest. Now the song just felt like a memory I couldn’t live up to.
Even Steve Perry—with a voice that could belt longing into concrete—sounded too far away to reach me tonight.
I turned it down, just a notch.
Then turned it up again.
It still didn’t help . . . because it wasn’t the music that was failing me.
It was the fact that no matter how loud I played it, I still saw Mateo, still heard his voice when the verses dropped low, still felt his grin in the tempo.
Even the damn lyrics betrayed me.
“Some will win. Some will lose . . .”
And suddenly I couldn’t remember the last time I’d let myself try.
I cranked up the volume loud enough to scare wildlife into the next county, then closed my eyes, threw my head back, and let it wash over me. The drums hit, the guitar wailed, Steve-the-god-of-tones held a note measured in lifetimes—
And all I could see was Mateo sitting across from me in that restaurant, grinning like a man who’d never been told he was too much. Hell, I’d even liked the way he talked too much, the way he filled every silence I let hang between us.
I swore under my breath, opened my eyes, and moved on to the last chair, dragging the rag a little too aggressively across the leg. The wood groaned in protest.
“Don’t you start,” I snapped, squeezing the rag a little harder, as if forcing the stain into the wood’ssoul.
This was stupid.
I wasn’t built for soft things—for laughter over dinner or first kisses that might mean something. I wasn’t built for wanting someone to text me just because . . . because theywantedto, not because they needed a delivery schedule.
I didn’t need this, this bullshit, these fucking feelings.
