Page 198 of Coach
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.
I didn’t want any of it—any of them.
I—
My phone dinged.
Loud. Clear. Sharp.
The sound chimed over Steve Perry and his band of angels.
It was the sound that made most teens quiver with delight and dive across a couch to retrieve their sacred device. For me, it was the sound of pure terror.
I froze mid-stroke.
The rag dripped, staining uneven tears of brown on the wooden seat.
Fuck my life.
I turned toward my phone sitting on the nearby workbench.
There was one new text.
One notification.
My gut twisted.
There was no reason for it to be him, no logical expectation. It had been two days after our date, well outside the timeframe for a follow-up. Surely, he’d realized I was the emotional equivalent ofThe Titanicand moved on, deleted my number, forgotten my name.
