Page 54 of Love Me Steadfast
The floor beneath us vibrates with approaching footsteps. “Hey, thought you guys might be up here.”
“S’up, Crosby,” Wren says, giving him a nod.
He settles across from me and sets his backpack behind him. “My dad made cookies,” he says, sliding a Tupperware tub from his backpack and popping the lid. The scent of cinnamon and chocolate and butter makes my mouth water. That Crosby’s dad is the homemakerand not his mom kind of bonded us at first. Though his mom is a high-powered lawyer and not a drunk, they’re both absent.
Emmie gives a quiet cheer. “Your dad is the best.” She and Wren both take a cookie, then Crosby offers the tub to me. I sneak two because I’m already done with my lunch and like always, still hungry. Theo accused me of having a tapeworm last week when I mowed down two more tacos than him.
“You got a name for your band yet?” Crosby asks. Since he saw Neve’s clip of Morgan and me singing “Blackbird,” he’s been bugging me about it.
I scowl at the cookie already half gone in my hand. Before I can change the subject, Emmie blurts, “You play mandolin, right?”
“Since third grade,” Crosby replies easily. “Why?”
I shoot Emmie a warning glance but her eyes are already lighting up. “Interesting.”
“How about guitar?” Wren asks.
“Of course.” He refocuses on me. “You need accompaniment for something?”
“Charlie and Morgan are gonna play at The Limelight,” Wren says, bouncing with excitement. “Opening for some nobody from Mountain Home.”
“He’s not gonna be a nobody for long,” Emmie says. “I binged his YouTube channel. He’s good. And hot.” She fans her face.
But Crosby’s not listening to them. “When’s the show?” he asks me.
I draw in a steadying breath. “November fourth.”
“Well dang, we’d better get busy,” he replies with a goofy grin.
Emmie claps her hands. “Perfect!”
“You sure? You don’t even know our songs,” I say. Though neither do we. My thoughts veer from refusing his assistance to melting into the wall in relief. Crosby has more musical talent in his little finger than my whole family combined. He might be a terrible kisser and awkward in social situations, but I reason that none of those things matter when we’re on stage.
“Can’t be that difficult,” he replies with a shrug.
Crosby’s arrogance always gets under my skin, but it’s the price we’ll pay for what Emmie calls hisbig viola energy.
“I’ll talk to Morgan and let you know,” I say as we pack up our things and head out of the pod.
“That’s the worst name ever,”Morgan says with a groan. “Mine’s better.”
“The Martha Hayburn Experience?” Crosby shoots her a flat look. “We sound like a Lilith Fair knockoff.”
Morgan gives a dramatic sigh. “Well I’m not doing Couloir Biscuits. That’s worse.”
“I gotta get to tutoring.” I set my violin in its case and snap it closed. “I’ll go with whatever you guys decide.”
Crosby gives me a look of longing before I turn away. Even though we went to HoCo as friends, there’ve been signs that he thinks “friends” was merely a placeholder. But I don’t feel that way about him. Probably because I can’t get past my stupid crush on William. I keep replaying our driving lesson. When his hand was wrapped over mine. When we laughed. My stomach dips when I remember his crystalline blue eyes on me. So steady and focused. Like listening to me was the most important thing to him.
But how can that be? He’s a fucking god and I’m a nobody.
It’s not fair. Both Emmie and Wren are in relationships, and of course, I’m happy for them, but it just makes me crave something for myself even more. Is it too much to ask that someone I like likes me back and wants to be with me? Maybe I’m being dramatic, but it feels like I’ll never have a boyfriend. Someone who wants to hold my hand in the halls. Someone who sends me secret notes and plans elaborate dates. Who kisses me with abandon. Who touches me with tenderness and passion.
After carrying my case to my room, I stare at my closet, my despair making me groan. Why did I say yes to tutoring this year? The answer is already there, underneath it all.
Because of William. Though helping him feeds a potent need inside me, the opportunity to spend time with him is just as powerful.
God, I’m pathetic. And probably destined to be a spinster with twelve cats. I lower to the edge of my bed and put my face in my hands.
