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“It wasn’t exactly his fault. We were in a...” He hesitates. “…tangle.” If grief had a sound, it’s that one word. My throat bobs as he continues, “He crashed into me.”
“Jesus.” A part of me wants to touch his leg where, once, there’d been a cast. The urge to check in with him is all-consuming, but I don’t.
Because that would be weird.
And everything about tonight is precisely that, so I don’t need to add to it.
Earlier, I figured I’d end up in Millie’s bed, yet here I am, on atruckbed with Cody, discussing death, movie scores, and the sperm dispersal of a famous film director.
“It’s been rough,” he agrees, which tells me more happened than he’s willing to talk about tonight. “But what do you think? About Sundance, I mean.”
“D-Do you think he’d help?”
“I think if you get some music together and give me a demo, there’d be no harm in asking.”
Something settles deep in my being. Something that’s forever restless.
He’s so calm. He radiates it. And there’s no false promise there. No hope. Simply fact.
My music will stand for itself. Or it won’t.
He’s only helping me get it into the hands of someone who might appreciate it. Or not.
I know I’m good. I know that part of my issues with my previous conductor, Jacobie, was because the committee always wanted me to have bigger parts and he liked to keep his orchestra musicians believing they were average.
One of the best symphonies in the world and he loved to put everyone down.
Ha.
My hand clutches at Cody’s. “Are you sure you don’t mind calling in that favor?”
When his free fingers drift over the curve of my cheek, my breath freezes in my lungs.
Is he going to kiss me?
But, no.
I sag with disappointment as he taps his pointer finger against my chin instead.
“Wouldn’t have offered if I did.”
My throat feels full. An orange has definitely gotten lodged in it, but the piercing sound of a motorbike rattling down the road is like a siren in the stillness of the night.
Tension fills him at that. “Damn, your mom wasn’t exaggerating about how noisy they are.”
There’s no denying that Pigeon Creek might be full of hustle and bustle during the day, but after 9 PM, when The Coffee Shop closes its doors, it’s a ghost town.
There are still signs of life, and it’s not as silent as out here, but that racket would stir anyone. Even the dead from their graves.
“When that big stampede traveled along the highway, it made me think it was thundering,” I admit dryly. “Still, that they’re coming this way means they’re not going through town, right?”
“Huh. I was slow to pick up on that.”
“Don’t worry. Not even Baby Cowboy has as many IQ points as I do.”
“And we’re back to you being bigheaded.” He laughs. “I’m glad actually. Don’t know if I could cope otherwise.”
Huffing, I shove his arm, but I’m only messing. When he lifts said arm and tucks it around me, I release a sigh.