Page 81 of A Country Kind Of Love
“It seems like you got everything you wanted, huh?” The tone isn’t harsh, but Peyton senses the underlying hostility.
“I didn’t want this.” Peyton sighs.
Cleo scoffs. “So, you’ve not just signed a deal with Shonda’s label?”
“How did...”
“Mandy told me you’d been in to see Shonda.” Cleo purses her lips. There is no hintof a smile.
“I did,” Peyton agrees, “but it’s not whatyou think.”
“I don’t need you to explain. Shonda really likes the song, so it makes sense.” Cleo’s name rings out from across the field; her friends are eager to leave. “I need to go, but I hope it all works out for you, Peyton.” Cleo nods.
“Wait, Cleo,” Peyton starts. She reaches for Cleo’s hand. She doesn’t pull away; she lets the moment linger. Her touch sends a shiver up Peyton’s arm. Cleo’s jaw clenches, her eyes narrow, and there’s no way out. Peyton is in love with her, and there’s no way back now.
It’s as clear as day.
“Peyton,” Cleo says softly. There’s a look of pain in her eyes, she doesn’t want to leave. Does she want Peyton to convinceher to stay?
“I need to explain.” The words she speaks are automatic. It’s like her brain is programmed to say what it needs to say, but beyond that she struggles. There’s a depth she can’t reach, a fight she wants to have, but like a coward shebacks down.
Just tell her you love her.
“Peyton, I can’t do this.” Cleo pulls her hand free. Her eyes are glazed. She’s hurt, and Peyton wants to take away the pain, but she doesn’t know how to make it better. Cleo won’t listen to her. She won’t allow Peyton to make things better, but maybe that’s for the best. If Peyton can convince Cleo it’s all a big misunderstanding and she still walks away, then what?
The possibility that there might still be a chance for reconciliation gives Peyton hope. It is preferable to no chance at all.
“I’m sorry,” Peyton whispers. Her hand drops to her side. Cleo doesn’t look back.
13
The steam fogs up the windows in Peyton’s apartment. The clouded glass hides the winter chill outside. She could’ve sworn she saw snow fall yesterday. She’s been told snow in Nashville around December isn’t unheard of, but it is uncommon. It does not snow in Huntington Beach. Aside from a trip to Canada when she was seventeen, she rarely comes across the cold white powder.
In recent weeks she’s learnt two things about Jesse; he loves pinewood scented candles and sweltering living conditions. Peyton removes her beige sweater. There’s a visible line of moisture down the centre of her chest. She is actively sweating in the middle of winter—that’s not normal. She opens the fridge and retrieves a bottle of water from behind last night’s leftover takeaway. Nashville chicken slathered in spicy hot paste has fast become her favourite food. The first bite many months ago sent her tastebuds wailing. Then she found the perfect combination of spicy and salty, and she’s neverlooked back.
Jesse strolls in wearing a Harley Davidson tank top and a pair of cargo shorts. He clutches a basketball between his large ring-covered hands.
“It’s not the middle of summer,” Peyton scoffs. “Are you allergic to wool?”
Jesse pulls a face. He looks down at his outfit. “Wool is itchy. I assume you’re referring to my outfit?” He shrugs. “I like to be comfortable. What about you? I’ve seen girls wear more clothes to the beach.” He smirks.
“It’s one hundred degrees in here, Jesse. I was colder when I went on vacation to the Bahamas in the heightof summer.”
She remembers the vacation well; it was right before Chloe ripped out her heart and metaphorically dragged it along the asphalt bouncing and scraping to the sound of a sad songs playlist. She had to delete her original Spotify account to escape it. The “recommended songs” function is great until your playlist becomes so depressing it makes an Adele album sound like a kid’s party playlist.
Her vacation in the Bahamas was the last time she remembers being happy, well, until she met Cleo—shemisses her.
“I’ll turn it down,” Jesse states—until tomorrow. He places the basketball on the worktop and starts to cut through it with a knife.
“What areyou doing?”
“I’m making a new bedfor Bugsy.”
“You’re making a new bed for yourtarantula?”
“Yes.” He nods.
“And I was thinking you might have been doing something strange.” Peyton swigs the bottle of water once more; it’salmost gone.
