Page 59 of A Country Kind Of Love
The sunlight cuts across Peyton’s eyes. She wakes from her intoxicating dream that involves Cleo dressed as her old high school gym teacher, Mrs. Laynard. Weirdly, Peyton wore a wedding dress. It appeared to be a runaway bride situation.
What the hell just happened? Andwhy?
She can feel the throb erupt through the skimpy boy shorts she wears to bed. She takes a moment to catch her breath, crossing her legs to stop the arousal. She rolls onto her side to reach for her phone. There’s a message from her brother. She squints; it reads short and sweet, something about coming home for Thanksgiving. Dylan is suspiciously prepared, considering it’s threemonths away.
There’s a notification email from her phone provider. Her phone bill has been declined: Insufficient funds. She’s scared to check her bank balance. The money she’d saved to help her through the first couple of months is almost gone. When she spoke to her dad, he was more than willing to wire her next month’s rent, which she reluctantly accepted. She needs a job—especially after rejecting Marvin’s proposal.
There’s a knot in her stomach that’s been there ever since. Did she make the right decision? Jesse took the moral high ground and told her whatever she chooses will be right for her, and that’s all that matters. Marvin didn’t agree. She didn’t exactlyrejectit per se, at least that’s what she’s holding on to.
Shedidagree to send the demo of the song—eventually. On her terms, with her blessing, andonlyafter receiving Cleo’s blessing, which she doesn’t have because she’s too much of a wimp to tell her the truth.
Cleo is immaculate, faultless, and out-of-this-world attractive. It’s intimidating. Peyton isn’t sure that excuse will work.
Hi, Cleo, I didn’t tell you I’d decided to release our song without you because you’re so perfect it’s intimidating.
No. Bad move.
Instead, she’s been working on countless other songs with Cleo in the hope one of them is better than the original, but so far, it isn’t working.
There is also the unpleasant thought of singing with Avery. It’s not his fault. He seems like an okay guy, but she doesn’t want to sing a love song with him. She’d rather partake in an apple bobbing contest where the apples are replaced with extra hot Nashville chicken, and the only way she can have a drink is if she drinks directly from acows udder.
Eww. She shudders.
If she has to sing it with anyone, if the song has to be a duo, which she isn’t denying, she wants to sing it withCleo.
That’s it.
Why can’t she sing it with Cleo?
Maybe, if she suggests it to Marvin he’ll go for it. What’s more unique than two gay women singing a love song to each other? There are no other lesbian duos in the country music scene or in any music scene for that matter, at least none Peytoncan recall.
Cleo breathes softly beside her. She’s almost silent, but there’s a quiet purr, like a kitten as her chest rises and falls. She sleeps in the most irregular way, with one arm above her head and the other across her chest. One leg is elevated slightly whilst the other hangs off the bed. Her hair still looks magazine worthy, but messy curls are on trend, so she can rest pretty comfortably for the next half a decade or so until the mullet makesa comeback.
Peyton slides out of bed, avoids the creak by the chest of drawers, and the second creak by the door. The mirror in the hall has become her enemy. She has a daily battle for self-assurance, and the mirror normally wins. This morning it highlights her desperate need to get a haircut. She pulls on the ends of her blonde curls, and they spring back into place with less enthusiasm, but a haircut is not on the cards unless it’s free.
I wonder if Jesse can cut hair.
She drags her feet towards the kitchen. Her eyes take a second to adjust.
“Morning, Dory.” Jesse hands her a cup of coffee.
She’s given up trying to contest the new nickname. It’s cute in a way; she’s certainly been called worse. In fifth grade a boy in her class called her “Poor Peyton”, because she didn’t have new trainers after summer break. It stuck for a goodtwo months.
“Morning. How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Just appear with coffee.” She inhales the sweet scent of caffeine goodness.
“You think you’re quiet, but you actually move like a baby giraffe.” He isn’t wrong. She bangs her knee as she climbs up onto the bar stool, his point is proven. Jesse wipes the sides. The clean-up from their usual Friday night gathering has begun.
“That’s fair.” She places the coffee mug down and pulls at a few strands of her hair. “Hey, do you cut hair?”
“Erm,define cut.”
“Like snip snip.” She gestures with her fingers. “You use a pair of scissors, and the ends fall off; that kind of cut.”
“Yes, but on a scale of 1-10 how good do you want the cut to look?”
