Page 14 of A Country Kind Of Love
“Who says your songs are great?” Mandy is typing as she’s talking; that’s a skill in itself. She’s toying with her and Peyton knows it.
“My mom.” The words escape her lips before she can comprehend how pitiful she sounds. Mandy’s eye roll is practically audible.
She giggles. She actually chuckles to herself before reverting to her hostileexpression.
“That’s sweet.” She fakes a smile, but her voice is so insincere it’s cringeworthy. Peyton’s face reddens; she’sembarrassed.
“This was a mistake.” Peyton turns on her heel andwalks away.
Mandy calls after her, “Thank you for stopping by. Have a good day now”, in her southern drawl. Peyton refrains from giving her the finger. The security guard holds the door open as she storms out. He smiles sympathetically. Mandy probably has girls running out of the building on adaily basis.
Don’t cry. It’s not worth it.
There are people outside; they’re not paying attention to her, but she feels like she’s under a microscope. The sun beats down on her face. The hat she’s wearing makes her head sweat, but she dare not take it off for fear her hair will be stuck to her forehead. She’s fed up.
Why do people have to be so mean? She would never kick someone whilst they’re down when all they’re trying to do is chase their dreams. She refuses to cry. She cried when her mom died. She cried when Chloe left her. She cried when she watchedA Dog’s Purpose,but other than those instances she absolutely does not cry.
A stretch of concrete wall is shaded by a large oak tree; she takes a seat and uses the moment to compose herself. She pulls her phone from her pocket; she wants to dial her dad, or Dylan, but they’ll only tell her to come home. They don’t understand. She didn’t fly across the country, away from her family, away from everything she knows, to fall at the first hurdle.
A shadow appears on the ground in front of her; she hears a soft southern accent; it isn’t overpowering, but the distinctive Tennessee twang she’s grown accustomed to all weekis present.
“Are you alright?”
Peyton looks up, the sun causes her right eye to squint, so the figure is partially blurred.
“Yes,thank you.”
The figure lights up a cigarette. “Do you want one?” She holds out the open cigarette packet. Peyton shakes her head.
“No thank you. I don’t smoke.” She tried once during a seventh grade rebellion. Dylan said she wouldn’t dare. Well, she did, and she choked, and consequently her dad found out and stopped her playing with her friends for a whole week, in the blistering heat of summer, when she should’ve been diving headfirst through the neighbour’ssprinklers.
“I’ve been meaning to quit.” She runs her hand through her short brown hair, but it flops back into place. She’s attractive; the summer glow highlights her facial features. She doesn’t look sweaty at all. Peytonis envious.
“My name’s Cleo.”
“I’m Peyton.”
She extends her free hand. There’s a small tattoo on her wedding ring finger that says,reserved. Quirky. Her hands are smooth; they’re both covered in silver rings of many shapes and sizes. There’s a small band with a clear bullet shaped crystal atop that catches Peyton’s eye.
“I like your ring,”Peyton says.
“Thank you. I madeit myself.”
“You did? How?”
“I took a jewellery making class last year. It was a gift from my aunt. It was pretty fun. I made this too.” Cleo pulls a necklace from underneath her oversized American Eagle T-shirt.
“It’s amazonite.” She grins.
“It’sbeautiful.”
Cleo takes one last puff on her cigarette and throws it tothe ground.
“So, are you a songwriter or a singer? Or both?” Cleo asks.
“How do you know I’m either?” Peyton’seyes narrow.
“You stormed out of a record label visibly upset.” She purses her lips. “Just a hunch.”
