Page 31

McCARTNEY

Clutching my filthy, ruined shirt in my hand, I step through the back door into the cool kitchen.

Grace is at the kitchen table, completely unaware of me.

Her fingers fly across the keys, and she’s lost in concentration, her brows pinched, and bottom lip caught between her teeth.

It seems she’s relocated from her room, which is a good sign, I think.

Means she feels comfortable in the house, and maybe even comfortable in our crazy.

“How’s the writing going?” I ask, making her jump and clutch her chest.

“You scared the shit of me,” she laughs, eyes sweeping over my bare chest and lingering before returning to the screen. It feels good to be looked at with appreciation.

“Good, I think. I want to get it done. They need it as soon as possible.”

I nod and keep walking, heading for the laundry room to grab a clean shirt off the hook. As I tug the soft cotton over my head, Grace groans and pushes back from the table.

“Shit,” she mumbles. A phone is ringing, the vibrations rumbling through the ceiling.

The sound of her bare feet hurrying toward the stairs echoes faintly. I glimpse her as she disappears, ass perky in Daisy Dukes and a flash of smooth skin where her shirt is tied at the waist.

In the kitchen, I pause to glug down some water, my gaze shifting back toward the glowing laptop sitting open and waiting on the kitchen table.

I shouldn’t.

Her voice singsongs from above, followed by laughter.

I shouldn’t, but I’m gonna.

Sliding into the chair she vacated, the soft hum of the laptop beckons me in a way even my sketchpad hasn’t been able to lately.

I glance toward the stairs to be sure. The coast is clear for now.

I pull the screen closer, the glow bathing my forearms in pale blue. Her document is still open, and as I scan the page, my breath catches.

“They’re, annoyingly, everything I didn’t know I wanted.”

“They run a home together, raise children like their own, and love without keeping score.”

“They’ve built something rare: an unconventional family they choose, every single day.”

I sit back, stunned. I expected sharp wit, a little sarcasm with maybe some cool professional detachment. I didn’t expect reverence, understanding, and hope.

We’ve had others come and go. Curious women, bored women, idealistic women. None of them ever looked past the surface. Past the novelty.

Grace sees.

God help me; she sees us .

I drag my thumb over my bottom lip and read again.

“McCartney is the dreamer. He sketches, carves, paints, and builds, seeing the angles the rest of us miss. He moves like he’s got music playing in his heart that no one else can hear, and somehow, you want to find a way to hear it, too. ”

I blow out a slow breath, moved beyond words. My fingers itch for my pencil, for my guitar, for anything that can capture this feeling. Instead, I do something reckless and stupid. I open the blank line under her last sentence and type.

The words flow faster than I expected without any kind of planning.

“You walked into a place not built for you,

Wove yourself into the dust and the dew.

Wild hair, sharp tongue, softest soul in disguise,

You see us through patient, forgiving eyes.

Stay, city girl, trade concrete for sky.

We’re looking for forever, so just don’t say goodbye.”

My throat tightens as I type the last line. I sit there, staring at it like an idiot, heart hammering harder than it should.

It isn’t a poem. It isn’t quite a song, either, but I already hear the melody.

I pull back and hover my fingers over the delete key. I could erase it. I should.

But I don’t.

I scroll her article back to the top, leave my scrawled confessional quietly nestled where she’ll find it later, and close the lid so it won’t be obvious.

The sound of her footsteps overhead jolts me back to reality.

Her footsteps grow louder. Grace is moving fast, laughing into her phone as she descends the stairs. I snap to attention, panic fluttering in my chest.

I stand, knocking the chair back with a soft scrape, and step away from the table, swiping my water glass to deposit it on the counter and cross to the door, every movement smooth and casual.

The screen door groans as I slip outside as she rounds the corner into the kitchen.

“I’ll call you back,” she says into the phone, distracted. “Yeah. Yeah, I promise. I’m fine. ”

I lean against the porch post outside, listening through the window as she settles back into her chair. The soft click-click of keys resumes a moment later, slower now, thoughtful.

My stomach knots.

I want to know if she finds it. I want to watch her face when she reads it.

But I won’t.

McCartney Delaney doesn’t get caught up. I sketch, I carve, I let things pass through me like wind through the trees. I don’t hold on.

Except with Grace, I want to. Maybe, I already have.