The Songs we Sing (Young Love Book 1)

by Kylie Key

  "Thank you," I said and I opened my notebook. "I wrote out the music for your chords."

  He looked over the page. "I don't know how to read it, but it looks impressive," he laughed.

  I quickly closed it, realizing how stupid that was. Musical notes were meaningless to him. "Um, I recorded it too," I said as I fumbled to unlock my phone, momentarily forgetting my passcode.

  "Hey, eat first," Damon said gently, covering his hand over mine. My heart skipped a beat at his touch. I looked up and found we were gazing into each other's eyes. There were no fireworks but it felt like there should have been. An explosion of sorts was happening inside of me, my heart went bang, crackle, fizz. We were separated by barely an arm's length, and I was transfixed, staring into the the hues of green and amber in his eyes. I tried - and failed - to break my stare.

  "Two chocolate milkshakes." A waitress stood next to us holding two glasses. Damon withdrew his hand from mine, moved his sandwich plate and said, "Great. Thanks very much."

  The waitress placed them on the table and Damon smiled at her. He shifted in his chair, his knees knocking against mine. He apologized and said, "I hope you like chocolate." Funny how a boy ordering you a milkshake you never asked for could make you feel all soft and warm and fuzzy. Funny how a boy you saw only as your friend's cute older brother could now be the reason for your heart about to explode and a ludicrous desire to spend all day at the piano writing songs.

  We shared the muffins, sipped on our drinks and Damon talked about his coaching and tennis in general. My tennis knowledge was pretty limited, I'd had a year of playing when I was about seven years old. My parents had given me the opportunity to try a full range of activities when I was younger, sport, art, music, dance. Music had been the only thing I'd stuck at, though I had competed in swimming and cross country right up until high school. But the way Damon talked about tennis I wished I'd never quit.

  He looked at his watch and smiled apologetically, "I gotta be back in twenty minutes."

  "Well let me play the song," I said, picking up my phone.

  "I'm nervous to hear it," he admitted with a grimace, "I feel like it's going to be bad. I don't mean because of you, I mean just because I suck."

  I shook my head vigorously. "No, no," I said, "I think it's great. Well, it will be."

  I pressed start on the video I'd taken of myself playing the song. It was just my fingers on the keys on the screen, but he was mesmerized, listening and watching intently. The smile crept onto his face and when the recording ended he looked at me and said, "You're amazing."

  "Oh no," I corrected, "that's not me. That's all you. It's your chords that I used."

  "But you're playing it. It's beautiful." I felt myself blushing, but I wasn't sure why. It's not like he'd called me beautiful.

  "Um, we should get together and try to figure the bridge."

  "The bridge?"

  "We have the verse and the chorus, but the song needs a bridge. You know like a variance. Most songs have them." He looked at me blankly. I laughed. "It's okay, we'll figure it out."

  "Okay." He turned shy. "Um, should we try to get together again? Near a piano?"

  "That would be preferable," I said, confidence appearing out of thin air. "We have a piano at home," my big mouth said before I stopped to consider the implications. How would I explain Damon's presence at my house if Dominique wasn't there? It would seem odd. Would I have to reveal that Damon and I were a new songwriting partnership? That would seem even odder. And besides Damon didn't want it known that he was writing songs. And I'd never ever had any inclination to write music before, my knowledge of songs being only the pop and rock tunes that I liked to listen to. I needed to withdraw the invitation.

  "You think that would be okay?" He surprisingly seemed attuned to the idea, so how could I refuse him?

  "Sure," I said, "why not?" Maybe he didn't care about my family knowing, maybe it was only his own.

  "Let's make it work then," he said and he put his hand up for a high five. I didn't quite connect, my fingers sliding off to the side of his hand.

  "Oooh. I think that's why I stopped playing tennis," I winced, "a bit un-co."

  Damon smiled and stood. "Your fingers are magic," he said and I felt all silly and weak in the knees. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me. He held out his hand to help me up, as if he knew my legs were like jello. It was the fourth time that day that we'd touched.

  And then number five came when he opened the door, let me walk through and his hand brushed against my back. I think it was an accident but for me it still counted.

  The touch of your hand

  Is soft and gentle

  And it stirs me up

  Though it's probably accidental

  The words ran through my head and I giggled.

  "What?" Damon asked.

  "Nothing," I said, trying to erase my smile, "I was just thinking of a rhyme. I think you're turning me into a lyricist."

  "Share?"

  "Uh uh." I shook my head. "It needs work."

  He laughed, a melodic sound erupting from his throat, his lips curling up, his eyes crinkling. It made me draw in a breath and hold it. Damon Strauss was now affecting me on every single level, every facial expression, every noise he made, every touch and probably every word he wrote.

  "Write it down," he said, "We might be able to use it in the song."

  I stood there stupidly nodding, while trying to make myself breathe.

  "Sure. Yep," I said, trying to stifle a giggle. Damon waved me goodbye and I watched as he jogged off to his car, my heart racing and more words running through my head.

  Why do I always blush around him?

  You think I have a crush on him?