Page 27 of Unspoken Words
“So, this surprise you have,” she said as she turned toward me and sucked in another puff of her inhaler, “can we just get it over with?”
I swallowed heavily, my nerves ballooning over what I was about to show her, but she was right; I should probably just get it over with. “Okay. But it’s nothing special. It’s not like it’s jewellery or flowers or anything,” I blurted out.
Heat burned my cheeks, and Ellie stiffened.What the crap did I just say that for?She sucked in another puff of her inhaler before shoving it back into her pocket and pivoting on the spot. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“Uh … down the hall. Last door on the right.”
“Cool. Thanks. I need to pee.”
“Cool.”
She took off in the direction I’d told her to, and when the bathroom door closed, I pretended to repeatedly hit my head against the fridge. “You stupid, stupid, idiot,” I muttered. “Why are you even talking?”
I was an indisputable donkey, talking when I should’ve been singing. Because that was my surprise: her words, my voice and music—they were the perfect combo.
Ever since she’d given me her note at the campsite, I’d been singing her words. They’d left my mouth as naturally as exhaling so I’d turned them into a song. A proper song with a start, middle and end, and I wanted her to hear it. I also wanted her to know that her words had helped me ‘express myself’ like she’d suggested. I wanted her to know that she was the reason I could now face each day, the reason Iwantedto face each day as long as she was there with me.
The song was kinda stupid, though, because the lyrics weren’t words I would normally say, yet, somehow, they were words I could sing. And, damn, did I want to sing so many things to her, things I couldn’t say like, “Will you be my girlfriend? Let’s kiss. Can I touch your boobs? I mean, books … can I touch your books?” Thankfully, I hadn’t sung any of that, and I wouldn’t. The last thing I wanted to do was scare her away.
Sounds and images flicked through my mind: sparkling eyes, bold colours … fire. They sparked a hum, a soft beginning of a tune, until the sound of the toilet flushing interrupted my creative process—not exactly melodic.
“Connor, I think I’m just gonna go—”
“I wrote a song, because of you. I didn’t want you to hear it but now I do. That’s my surprise,” I babbled as she walked back into the kitchen.
Not allowing any time for her to object—or escape—I grabbed her hand and tugged her upstairs to my room, closing the doors behind us. “Take a seat, over there on my beanbag,” I ordered, like a jerk. “Sorry. Please. I mean please take a seat.”
“Uh … okay.” She sat down and smoothed out her blue school dress before placing her wrung hands in her lap. It made me smile. She did those two things when she was nervous and, strangely enough, her nerves lessened my own.
“Like I said, it’s nothing special. I just wanted to show you that I could express myself like you told me to.”
Ellie’s face stretched into the biggest smile I’d ever seen. She relaxed her unclamped her hands and began twisting the hem of her dress.
“You painted your nails pink. They look nice,” I said, watching how her twisting pulled her dress tighter. I looked away, took hold of my guitar, and sat on the stool next to my window. “Okay, so this song is called ‘Always’. I hope you like what I’ve done with your words.”
Sucking in a breath, I exhaled and relaxed, my guitar pick clipping the strings and sounding the chords I’d spent night after night practising.
What’s gone isn’t gone until you let it slip away.
Hold on to your memories.
Hold on. Always.
Always.
Always
Hold on. Always.
As I strummed my last chord, I was heavy with emotion but also felt lighter. Happier. And that probably had something to do with the obvious joy in Ellie’s body language. How her knees cradled her chin and were hugged tight to her chest, her smile radiant but slightly sheepish, her green eyes twinkling and full of questions, but mostly how her cheeks rivalled the shade of her hair.
“So … what do you thin—”
“Ilovedit!” she squealed before I even had a chance to finish what I was saying. “How? How do you do that?”
“Do what?” I asked, chuckling as I placed my guitar down and flexed my fingers.
“That.” She gestured toward me. “Create a song.”
