by Sydney Logan
“Hold Me Now. Thompson Twins.”
“Impressive.”
I snort. It’s very unladylike but I don’t care.
“I have to warn you, Caleb. Stumping me on 80s music is gonna be tough, but good luck with that.”
“That sounds like a challenge.”
With a grin, I shrug and take a bite of my chicken. Now that my nerves have somewhat settled, I’m actually pretty hungry.
“They’re good, right?”
I nod. “So what do you do when you aren’t teaching music to elementary kids?”
“I’m teaching music to high school kids. Told ya. Boring and predictable.”
“I don’t think that’s boring. I think that means you love what you do.”
Caleb nods thoughtfully. “I do, which surprises me, to be honest. I didn’t plan on teaching. Like most musicians, I just wanted to be in a rock band and be a songwriter. Aunt Carol was the one who convinced me to go to college, just to have something to fall back on in case the music business didn’t work out. Musicians can struggle for years. Most do. She knew that, which is why she encouraged me to get a degree in music education. At least I’m doing what I love, and I can still write. I can just do it without worrying about how I’m going to pay the rent.”
“The enrichment program should help with that.”
“I’m just volunteering to help out Aunt Carol. I love it, though. The kids are wicked talented, especially Eli.”
I smile proudly. “It’s been so good to see him excited about something. He’s been pretty numb since the divorce. I hate that my ten-year-old nephew has to deal with a crappy situation that’s completely out of his control.”
Caleb’s face falls.
“I know that feeling all too well,” he murmurs.
His voice is tinged with so much sadness that it nearly breaks my heart. Before I can ask what he means, he looks up at me and smiles.
“What about you? What do you for a living?”
This is always a tricky conversation. Whenever I tell a guy that I’m a wedding planner, it can sometimes—or in my case, always—give them the impression that I constantly have weddings on the brain. Which I do. It’s just other people’s weddings and not my own.
“My best friend and I run our own business.”
There. Vague but honest.
“Oh yeah? What kind of—”
Our waitress suddenly appears, and I couldn’t be more thankful for the interruption. She refills our drinks and asks if we’d like anything else before heading back to the bar. Caleb apparently forgets to finish his question because he starts asking me a million others.
“Favorite song?”
“That’s a very long list.”
“All 80s?”
“No. I’ll listen to just about anything. My playlist is the most insanely eclectic bunch of songs you’ll ever find.”
“You think so, huh?” Caleb reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone. “Let’s compare.”
Excited to play this game, I grab my cell out of my bag. We exchange phones and scroll through each other’s playlists. We’re both grinning like idiots because a lot of the songs are the same.
“Excellent playlist, although I do question this band.”
He points to my screen and smirks. I’m not really offended, but I pretend to be.
“How dare you question my devotion to One Direction?”
“How dare I not?”
With a huff, I place his phone on the table between us before snatching mine out of his hand.
“Fine. And I’ll pretend I didn’t see Taylor Swift on yours.”
“Taylor Swift is an exceptional songwriter.”
“And the guys in One Direction have incredible harmonies.”
Caleb chuckles and raises his hands in surrender. “Agreed.”
I grin.
“What about your favorite movie?” he asks.
“Dirty Dancing.”
“Of course it is.”
“Don’t judge me. When Patrick Swayze died, I literally cried for days.”
“No judgment. I felt the same way about Michael Jackson.”
“Really? I have Thriller on vinyl.”
“Me, too.”
It’s crazy how much we have in common. And scary.
Caleb plays with his phone for just a second before putting it back in his pocket. As the band continues their set, we finish dinner and order dessert. Throughout the evening, our bodies drift closer while Caleb’s questions become more personal. I don’t really get the chance to ask him anything because he seems determined to hear every inconsequential detail about my life.
“Have you always lived in Nashville?”
I shake my head. “I was actually born in Seattle. Dad was stationed there in the army until I was six years old. When he decided not to re-enlist, we moved to Tennessee. Dad grew up here, and he convinced Mom it was a great place to raise a family. They bought a farmhouse about an hour south of the city. Mom was so miserable. She’s a total city girl and our hundred-year-old farmhouse was like a shock to the system. They divorced a few years later.”
Caleb reaches for my hand. I try to ignore how my skin tingles beneath his touch.
“I bet that was tough.”
“It was tougher when Mom decided she wanted to move back to Seattle. She got this amazing job offer that she would’ve been crazy to pass up. But my school was here. My friends were here. I didn’t want to go, and she didn’t force me. They worked out a custody agreement and I was able to stay with my dad. I flew out to Seattle for holidays and school vacations, and Mom flew to Tennessee as much as she could. It was actually really amicable as far as divorces go.”
“Still,” Caleb says softly, “that had to be hard . . . not having her around.”
“At times. I missed her a lot, but she was happy and so was my dad. And I got to spend a lot of time in Seattle, which I loved.”
“What did you love about it?”
His mouth is close to my ear, and I shiver when his breath grazes my earlobe.
“The rain,” I whisper, tilting my face toward his.
Caleb’s blue eyes sparkle beneath the purple lights of the café. “You like the rain?”
“I love the rain.”
“Me, too.”
He softly brushes his hand against my cheek as he leans close. My heart races in my chest, and I close my eyes.
I never kiss on the first date. It’s a rule.
But tonight, I’m going to make an exception.
“This song goes out to Skye.”
Or not.
My eyes flash open. I look to the stage to find Jesse smiling down at me. Then the band starts to play the opening bars of She’s Like the Wind by Patrick Swayze.
“Surprise,” Caleb whispers against my ear.
Holy crap.
“How . . . I mean, how—”
“I texted him.”
So that’s what he was doing with his phone.
Caleb stands and offers me his hand.
“Dance with me?”
I hate to dance . . . almost as much as I hate to date. But this is, without a doubt, the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me.
“Okay.”
Caleb’s eyes never leave mine as he leads me to the dance floor. Pulling me close, he drifts his hands up my arms and along my shoulders until I’m flush against him. I encircle his waist with my arms as we sway to the music.
Then the most amazing thing happens.
Caleb leans his forehead against mine and starts to sing.
And I melt. Absolutely, positively melt right there in his arms.
Correction. This is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me.
Caleb’s deep blue eyes burn with emotion as he sings softly to me. I don’t care that we probably look ridiculous and cheesy. I don’t care that the waitress will most likely slash my tires. I don’t care that he’s singing slightly off key. I don’t even care that my best fri
end is going to scream bloody murder when I tell her about this moment.
I don’t care about any of it, because I’m here.
With him.
It’s exciting.
It’s terrifying.
Suddenly too overwhelmed with everything, I close my eyes.
“Please look at me,” he whispers, and because I’m completely under his spell, I obey.
“Caleb, I . . .” my voice drifts off.
Everything’s just too intense. It’s too much. And I don’t know what to say.
“You feel it, too?”
The insecure girl in me wants to ask what he means, but the woman in me knows. Of course I feel it, and I have no idea how to answer him. I decide to go with the truth.
“I do.”
He sighs and presses his forehead to mine once again. I’m confused, because it’s not a happy sigh. It’s not even a contented sigh. It’s a painful sigh filled with regret, and I don’t know why. Did I say the wrong thing? Was I supposed to lie?
The song comes to an end, and we applaud politely before walking back to the table. The shift in his mood in palpable, and I know that the night is over.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” he says.
Numb and confused, I grab my bag and follow him out into the Nashville night. He takes my hand as we walk to the parking lot. When we reach my car, he finally looks at me. He smiles, but he’s smiled so much tonight that I know this one’s forced. It makes my stomach hurt how much it’s forced.
“I had a great time, Skye.”
“Me, too.”
After a few minutes of complete awkwardness, I finally take the hint and climb into my car.
“Goodnight, Caleb.”
“Goodnight, Skye.”
He closes my door, and then he’s gone.
Dazed and a little heartbroken, I drive the five miles to my apartment. It’s only when I pull into my driveway and glance in my rearview mirror that I realize I’ve cried all the way home.
“You’re leaving something out,” Lynsey says with a frown.
“And for the hundredth time, I promise I’m not.”
An insomniac Skye is rarely a happy one, and my two hours of sleep are making me grouchy and impatient. Not only am I exhausted, I’m pissed. Totally and completely pissed at myself for crying over a man I’d known for less than twenty-four hours.
Who does that?
I do that. Did that. All last night. Because I’d actually allowed myself to think that Caleb might be different.
“You were dancing . . .”
“Yep.”
I tap angrily on my keyboard, trying to ignore the fact that the numbers on the screen are starting to swim.
I will not cry.
“He asked the band to play a song for you?”
“Swayze.”
Lynsey sighs wistfully.
“And then he asked if I felt it, too. I should have lied, because it was at that point he completely shut down.”
“Something spooked him.”
I shrug. “Doesn’t matter. Nashville’s a big city. I’ll never have to see him again.”
“I don’t know, Skye. The connection was so intense.”
“Too intense. Way too intense. So intense it wasn’t even real.”
My best friend smiles sadly at me. “You can’t fool me, you know. I think it was very, very real. Otherwise you wouldn’t be this upset.”
“I’m not upset!” Why won’t she let this go?
Lynsey arches an eyebrow. “Obviously not. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
I take a deep breath to get control of my emotions and then close my laptop. It’s not like I can concentrate on work anyway.
“I’m sorry, Lyns. I’m just exhausted . . . and confused. It was going so well and then, suddenly, it wasn’t. I don’t know what happened.”
“Come sit.” Lynsey pats the sofa.
With a weary sigh, I walk over and slip off my heels before sitting down beside her. We both curl our legs beneath us, and I grab one of the pillows and hold it close to my chest. Our receptionist knocks on the door and walks in with two mugs of tea.
“Sounds stressful in here so I made chamomile,” Robyn says, offering us each a cup. “And Skye, I’ve cleared your schedule for the afternoon.”
“I don’t need my schedule cleared!”
Robyn’s eyes dart to Lynsey’s before she creeps out of the room.
“Yell at me. I told her to do that.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Skye. Maybe because you’re snapping at everyone? Maybe because I’m afraid to let clients see you in this condition? You’re obviously upset and with good reason. You’re the boss. Take the afternoon. Go home. Get some sleep.”
“I can’t. We have that outdoor wedding this weekend and the caterer is being a bitch.”
“I can handle it.”
“You have enough to do.”
“I think I can deal with some finger foods. Go home.”
I know she’s right, so I give her a hug and apologize to Robyn before heading to my car. It’s barely noon, but my plan for the rest of the day is to order the greasiest cheese pizza, open a bottle of wine, and curl up on the couch until I eat and drink myself into unconsciousness. Unfortunately, the drive home takes thirty minutes longer than usual, because people on the interstate can’t drive when it rains.
Stupid rain.
I hate the rain.
Caleb’s ruined it for me. It’s sad that I’ve only known him for a few days and suddenly everything reminds me of him. The rain, my favorite 80s radio station . . . all of the little things we have in common are now just miserable reminders of what might have been and proof of how stupid I really am.
When I finally make it home, I change into my most comfortable, ugly sweats and bury myself on the couch under my favorite blanket. The pizza makes my stomach do somersaults but the wine’s good. Ironically, I’m too tired to sleep, so I grab the remote and flip through the channels.
VH1 is showing an I Love the 80s marathon and Dirty Dancing is playing on TBS.
I turn off the TV, throw the remote across the room, and bury my head under my blanket.
My ringtone jerks me out of a dreamless sleep. Blindly, I smack the end table until I find my cell.
“What?” I mutter into the phone.
“Are you sick?”
My brother.
“No, Nick, I’m not sick.”
“Are you sure? You sound sick.”
“Didn’t sleep well, so I took the afternoon off.”
“I woke you up.”
“Yep.”
“Then I really feel bad about this, but I need a favor.”
Of course you do. I love my brother a lot, but I’ve been doing him a lot of favors lately.
“What do you need?”
“Do you remember Sanchez? From my birthday party?”
“No.”
“Not important. But he’s had a death in the family. He asked if I could take his shift, which means I’m working a double.”
“So you need me to watch Eli? No problem.”
“And pick him up from guitar.”
My eyes snap open.
No. No. No.
In my sleep deprived misery, I hadn’t even considered that I would probably have to face Caleb whenever I picked up Eli from his guitar class.
“I don’t think I can—”
“Please, Sis. I could call Jill, but it’s my night and I’ll have to hear her bitch about how I’m neglecting my kid again.”
Jill wouldn’t be completely wrong. I know my brother needs to work. After all, divorces don’t come cheap. But lately, Eli’s spent more and more time at my house and less with his dad. Even though company’s the last thing I want tonight, I could never say no. At least if Eli’s with me, I know he’s being taken care of.
“Sure, Nick. No problem.”
He sighs with relief. “I owe you so much.”
You have no
idea.
“Mr. Lynch, you look like crap.”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard that today. It is the first time, however, that a student said it loud enough for me to hear it.
The truth is I do look like crap. Feel like it, too. Zero sleep will do that. I’m so out of it, mentally and physically, that I gave each class a practice day so they’d leave me alone and let me wallow in peace.
Naturally, that hasn’t happened.
High school kids can smell bullshit from a mile away, and it doesn’t bother them a bit to call you out. Which mine have been doing all day long.
“You really don’t look well,” Maya, one of our clarinet players, says softly. “You didn’t even shave. You always shave.”
You’re lucky I’m dressed.
“Girl trouble?” Jaxon asks, placing his trumpet in its case.
“Girls will break your heart, man,” Noah says, tapping his drumsticks on his knees. “They will chew you up and spit you out.”
“Oh, and guys won’t?” Maya shoots back. “I could give you a long list of jerks who’ve—”
“Stop!” I’m seriously about to lose my mind. “Please just practice. Or . . . text your friends. I don’t care. Just leave me alone.”
Worst. Teacher. Ever.
The fact that I’m willing to ignore the schoolwide ban on cell phone use during class is enough incentive for them to leave me alone until the end of the period. When the bell finally rings, a weary sigh escapes my throat.
I’ve never been so grateful for three o’clock.
Unfortunately, going home to crash isn’t an option. The gifted and talented class is waiting for me, so I drive my tired ass to the elementary school.
It’s only two hours. I can do anything for two hours.
I keep repeating that to myself as I make my way into the band room.
Naturally, the first person I see is Eli playing his guitar. As soon as he spots me, he smiles up at me with those bright green eyes—the exact shade of his aunt’s—and the last shred of sanity I still possess completely vanishes.
Thankfully, these students are too focused on their instruments to notice my disheveled clothes and scraggly beard. They’re so talented that very few of them need my help at all, but as I walk by Eli’s group, I notice he’s having trouble with a chord progression. After working with him for a few minutes, his little fingers start to flow seamlessly over the frets.
