by J. R. Rogue
That’s what I want to do tonight.
Hunter’s strumming the guitar in front of me in the chair by the fireplace, in my room.
“What are you going to play for me?” I ask, pulling my knees to my chest, leaning back against the headboard. I’m sated and warm. I ignore a knock across the hall on Hunter’s door.
“Something you’ll like,” Hunter says, strumming more.
I know he’s right because we love the same songs. Every time he tells me a favorite, I feel a thrill, because it’s always a favorite of mine. He’s about to sing when someone knocks on my door.
“Who is it?” I holler.
“Me, damn it. Where’s Hunter? He’s gotta be in there. I can hear that out-of-tune guitar of his,” Andrew yells.
“Jackass,” Hunter mumbles, letting his hand drop from the instrument.
“Come in,” I yell reluctantly, feeling an obligation to the cabin owner’s brother.
Andrew opens the door with a flourish, his hand is covering his eyes. “Okay, you two, put your clothes back on and get upstairs. We’re not writing tonight. We’re playing a game.”
“No one is naked, fucker.” Hunter laughs.
Andrew peeks through his fingers. “Well, hell. I was hoping to see that sweet ass of yours again,” he jokes, staring at Hunter. “You two coming up?”
“Depends what we’re playing,” I say, smiling. I like Andrew. The little I’ve seen of him has been enough to warm me to him. He’s funny—funnier than Hunter, though I would never tell him that. Ego and all.
But I’m hesitant to go upstairs. First, I want to know my chances of winning whatever game we might play. I’m too competitive for my own good. “Charades? Heads Up? Duck, Duck, Goose?” I ask.
“Strip Poker?” Hunter slips in.
I shoot him a look, and his hands go up in surrender.
“You’re way off,” Andrew says, pointing at me. Then, he points at Hunter. “But you’re warm.”
“Spill it,” I demand, standing from the bed, hands on my hips. “I’m not coming up for a lame game.”
“It’s Truth or Dare,” Andrew says, shit-eating grin on his face.
When we make it upstairs, the room goes quiet for a moment.
There are chairs around the couches and loveseats in front of the fire. Blankets are on the floor too, all full of songwriters.
Want a bunch of artists to learn how to socialize? Give them alcohol. And make them play a game like Truth or Dare, so they really let those inhibitions go. Better yet, play the game right before they’re about to leave, so the real them comes out.
This seems like the worst idea ever. I’m surprised Sera went for it.
I see her, on a loveseat, her legs thrown over her husband’s lap. A redhead sits behind her. Sera’s head is lying on the woman’s shoulder. Sera’s husband, Chace, is on his phone, a notebook in his hand.
Andrew walks over to the loveseat and then sits on the floor in front of it, between the redhead’s legs. She leans down and kisses his head. That must be Kat, Sera’s best friend and Andrew’s wife.
When Andrew had arrived, lamenting over being replaced by Hunter as a mentor, I learned he and his wife were staying nearby with Sera and Chace.
I turn back to Hunter, wondering where he wants to sit. It hits me that I’m not sitting down and am looking to him to find us a spot like we’re a couple. And everyone can see us acting as such. Great. Whatever.
Hunter will be gone soon, and so will these people. I don’t have a second more to fret about it, because Hunter takes my hand, threading his fingers into mine, and pulls me to a spot by the fireplace.
He sits, legs crossed, and pats the floor in front of him.
I sit there, careful not to fall back into him. It’s dangerous territory, and it’s only going to get worse. I can feel it in the air. I don’t know what truths I can offer. I don’t know what I’ll allow myself to be dared to do.
I turn around, whispering to Hunter, “Can you grab me a drink from the fridge when you get one?” I need courage.
He nods, his long legs retreating.
I scan the crowd, finding Sera’s eyes. She’s smiling at me, her eyes darting over to Hunter in the kitchen.
Shaking my head, I purse my lips. Fuck.
“Truth or dare, bro?” Andrew says to Chace.
Chace rolls his eyes in return, and I feel like I’m watching two brothers interact. And, they are brothers-in-law, so I’m not far off.
“Truth,” Chace replies, running his thumb over Sera’s leg.
“When did you first know you loved my sister?”
Chace smiles, and it’s the shy kind. Sera is gazing at him. She knows the answer, but she’s listening. I can see it. I want that type of love.
“She had on a white dress. Her hair was up. She was on the arm of another man. I wanted her anyway—even though we’d never met and I was just seeing her on a TV screen at the Oscars, with a movie star. I wrote the date down. I never wanted to forget it.” His hand moves down Sera’s legs, to her shoes. Converse. He taps the white caps, where her toes are. I can see writing there, but I can’t make out what it says. “Your turn. Truth or dare.”
Andrew answers, “Truth.”
There have been so many truths, the night should be called truth or truth.
“Did you leave Missouri because you love Kat or because you missed me?” Chace asks him.
The guys laugh, and I purse my lips again. I wonder if they miss Missouri or if they’re glad to be rid of the state, like I am.
“Okay, Hart. How ‘bout you?” Andrew says.
I don’t expect Hunter to say truth. I know how he guards his life from others. He hides behind jokes and songs. I’ve been looking for him in every lyric we’ve written this past week.
“Dare.” His voice is soft behind me, his breath close to my ear.
“Sing us a song,” Andrew says.
I can almost hear Hunter roll his eyes as he starts to get up to get his guitar across the room.
Then, Andrew speaks again, continuing his dare. “Sing us a song that reminds you of Sonnet.”
The silence surrounds us. I can hear the shuffling of uncomfortable bodies, just barely, over the ringing in my ears.
“Pardon?” I stutter.
“He heard me,” Andrew replies. Behind him, Kat swats the back of his head, giving me a sympathetic look over his shoulder. I already like her.
No one says a word as Hunter walks across the room. The fire paints our faces in orange and red. Paints me in fear and anxiety. I take another drink.
I see Sera hiding behind her hands. Chace is bent down, whispering in her ear. He pulls her closer, and she snuggles into his chest.
I don’t want to be on the floor, about to be embarrassed. I want to be doing what they are doing.
A song about me? Reminds him of me?
What if there isn’t one? I mean, there are tons we both love. But what will he pick? My heart is thundering in my chest. I want to get up, bolt down the stairs, hide in my room for the rest of the night.
I stare at Andrew, but he won’t look at me. Coward. Shit-stirring coward. He’s picking at some paint on his jeans, and Kat talks into his ear as he smiles.
When the strumming starts, I pull the blanket tighter around me.
Everyone is silent as he plays. Just when I think he’s about to sing, the chord changes, and he starts a new song.
“Hart, quit stalling,” Andrew yells.
“I’m not,” Hunter says. “I’m just trying to figure out which song y’all might wanna hear. Because there are a lot that remind me of her.”
My face heats up. I’m covered in various shades of red, hoping the glow from the fire covers the blush.
“I’m just trying to pick one that’s a crowd-pleaser. I’m the better entertainer here, Andrew. You wouldn’t understand,” Hunter teases.
Then he’s playing again, and the song sounds familiar. Yes, I know it, but it’s not a nineties song. It’s not one
of the ones we’ve discussed night after night. It’s a newer one—Rumor, by Lee Brice.
I can’t help my smile. Everyone in the room is wondering about us. Wondering about the rumors, whether we’re friends or not. Hunter sings about a girl kissing him, giving them something to talk about.
I love the rumors about us, then. The anxiety falls away. I credit the song, the liquor, and knowing I won’t see most of these people again, after tomorrow.
And, finally, the rumors can’t hurt anyone. We can’t hurt anyone anymore by wanting each other.
We can only hurt each other.
For four minutes, I don’t think about that. I just listen to his voice. That voice that can mimic the greats. The voice that can sing an original and I like it more—because the words are his own. At long last, he is no longer hiding.
When Hunter’s done, he pushes his guitar to the side, and he’s looking right at me.
“Wanna give them something to talk about?” Hunter asks, saying the words to the song out loud. For once, he isn’t hiding behind these lyrics.
I stand, letting the blanket fall to the floor, moving slowly between the bodies separating us. His hand is still out when I reach him, and I grab it.
When he kisses me, I hear the group around us start clapping. It’s so stupid, so laughable, so I laugh into Hunter’s mouth. “I hate you,” I say.
“That’ll never stick,” he says, pulling me back to him, his hands in my hair.
I hear Andrew yell for us to get a room, and now I don’t hate him. I want to thank him.
Because this feels honest. This feels like what we should have been doing this whole time.
I want him, and I will take this moment. Because I have no idea when we’ll go back to reality. The reality of Hunter’s rules. His guidelines and all the stuff in his head that keeps us apart.
When we part, I grab his hand, pulling him with me. We gather our things and wave goodbye to the group before heading down the stairs.
I don’t want to play games for the rest of the night. Unless they’re games that involve his hands on mine.
You Don’t Even Know Who I Am
Sonnet
“You nervous, Rosewood?”
“Nope,” I reply, trailing down the stairs, on his heels.
“I don’t make you nervous?” Hunter pouts.
“You make me a lot of things. Nervous? Okay, yes. Still. Sometimes.” I follow Hunter into his room as he puts his guitar up. My eyes run over his things. He’s so neat, and my room is a mess. His shirts are hung, his jeans are folded, his socks are together in pairs.
I remember the first time we slept together. The first night, when I saw his room, his apartment. The inside of his truck the next day. I was in awe of how neat he was. How together and organized he was. I should have known he had a place for everything in his life. And if it didn’t fit, it didn’t get to stay.
I was a mess, frayed at the edges and wild. I didn’t fit into Hunter Hart’s life then.
Do I fit now?
I walk up behind him, wrap my arms around his narrow waist. His hand captures mine, then he’s turning, pressing his lips to mine, slipping his tongue inside. We walk back to the bed. When my thigh hits the side, I fall down, face-to-face with his belt buckle.
My Christmas-socked feet sit on top of his cowboy boots, and I lean forward, my forehead resting on him, stopping myself.
His hand lands on my head, running through my hair. “What are you doing down there?”
“Not what you’d like me to be doing,” I joke, grabbing him through his jeans. But I pull away because I still have a question lodged in my chest from earlier in the night. “Do you think your ex-wife won’t find someone new because you’re still in her town?”
“I don’t know why she does the things she does. And I don’t aim to try to understand her stance on love now. It’s not my business to know, after breaking her heart.” He kneels down, getting eye-level with me.
“She didn’t break yours?” I place my hands on his shoulders.
“We broke each other’s by not bein’ able to make it work.”
I run a hand up his neck. I can’t talk to anyone the way I can talk to him. I feel his answers, know they’re real, know he’s open in a way he usually isn’t with other people. I asked him why one time, and he said guys just don’t talk that way to each other.
Boys. They’re so dumb when it comes to feelings. So afraid of them.
“It’s silly, the way we wear blame so well,” I say, pulling him a little closer.
“You wear it more than anyone I know.” He kisses me—a firm press of lips, no tongue—and it’s more sweet than wanting.
“Yeah, I won’t argue with that,” I say after he pulls away. “I just wish love was enough for us.” I don’t know what us I mean.
“Love is never enough,” Hunter says. “It’s the spark, but the flame dies if you don’t work at it.”
I climb onto the bed, my body wanting to move away from this somber conversation. I don’t want to talk about love; I want to talk about the teasing and flirting upstairs. “I can’t believe you picked that song.”
“I was just messing with them,” Hunter says, smirking. “That’s not the song that came to mind.”
“You said a lot of songs remind you of me. Is that true?” We’ve discussed songs night after night on end, but never of one that reminds him of me.
“Yeah. We’ve discussed music a lot over the years,” he replies, mimicking my thoughts.
“That’s true. So what was it? A little What Mattered Most?” I love the Ty Herndon song.
“No, but you’re warm.”
I try to recall a song similar, one we’ve discussed.
“We’ve never talked about it,” he edges. “I just think of you when I hear it.”
“Okay, Hart. Play it.”
He crosses the room in response, grabs the guitar.
I don’t know the song he starts playing, not at first. It’s not one I’ve listened to many times. It’s over twenty years old, which doesn’t surprise me. Hunter likes the older stuff.
When it hits me, the song he’s singing, I still.
I know where I’ve heard it before. My husband used to play it in the house, on full blast. He would sing it at the top of his lungs. He loved old country, too. When I would listen to the words of the song, I always wondered if he was trying to tell me something.
Hunter’s head is down, focused on his hands, as he sings You Don’t Even Know Who I Am by Patty Loveless. A song about two people, married, who don’t know each other anymore. Two people who checked out emotionally years before, but never wanted to admit it to each other.
I don’t like this. I don’t like the message. I didn’t like it then, and I really don’t like it now. To have this message delivered from a different voice, it’s a knife.
I pull back, lying flat on his bed. My arms cross over my chest. I recognize it as a defensive pose, one I used to do in my own bed after fights with my husband. I would lie there like I was lying in a coffin.
Hunter sings the entire song, not giving me silence.
When he’s done, we stay in the quiet for a while. Hunter, sitting across the room with his guitar; me, lying on his bed.
“I was afraid of that. And that’s why I didn’t play it upstairs,” he says.
“Why’d you play it at all?” I murmur.
“You askin’ me why it reminded me of you?” His voice is low too.
“Yes,” I say, eyes closed. I can hear him moving, placing his guitar on the floor, his long strides to the bed. His large hands wrap around my wrists. “Why are you lying like that?”
I pull my arms from his grasp, reach for his hands so he can pull me up. He takes a seat next to me, his one leg dragged onto the bed so he can face me.
I hug my knees. “Tell me why.” I struggle with the words.
“Why do you look like you wanna cry?” Hunter runs a finger along my jawline.
“Why aren’
t you spitting it out?”
“I take it you know that song?”
“Yeah. He used to play it, all the time.”
Hunter looks like he’s been slapped. His face scrunches up, and he crosses his arms over his chest, turning away from me. “Your husband used to play that?”
“Yes.” I’m full of regret, so tired of my past trailing me.
“Wow,” Hunter whispers.
“Not everyone uses songs as weapons or ways to send messages. You’re a singer. A songwriter. Most people play songs just because they like them,” I say.
“Then why did you get so upset?” he asks.
“It’s a sad song. I remind you of sad songs.” I’m a heartbreaking novel, a sad song, a poem that can’t be finished.
“I don’t think he knew you.”
“And you do?” I ask. I want to know his answer, how it lines up with mine. Because I think he does know me. Better than most people. He can read me and it’s scary. He’s always scared me. A connection like that, if we fell into it fully, would we ever bounce back from it?
The finger that was on my jaw now draws slow circles on the back of my hand. “I think you know I do.”
“How am I feeling right now?” I ask.
“Like a failure.” He’s right.
I mourn the end of my marriage. I mourn the fact that I made vows and couldn’t keep them. I mourn that we never let go with each other. So many years, and I couldn’t be completely vulnerable with him. And he couldn’t trust me not to leave. I didn’t blame him, because I did leave.
And maybe I left before I walked out the door. Just like the song said.
“A divorce isn’t the end of the world,” Hunter says. “It isn’t the end of you. I know you’re a little badass, a little black heart, but you don’t have to be a wall. You can open up.”
“It’s easy to say. Sometimes I convince myself I can, but it isn’t working. Those walls are too high. I don’t remember who I built them for.” My therapist has many theories. They all lead to the man who broke both my mother’s heart and mine.
