Page 40 of One More Made Up Love Song (Midnight Rush #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Ivy

By nine a.m. the next morning, Freddie is in the front seat of my car, Carina is in the back, and we are ready to leave for Knoxville.

I am nervous for so many reasons, I can’t even begin to list them all. But I’m excited too. And there’s a strange, buzzy energy around Freddie that makes me think he feels the same way, which weirdly helps me feel better.

A tiny voice in the back of my head keeps suggesting I’m making things up, but I don’t actually think that’s true.

Not anymore.

Wayne begrudgingly gave us permission to travel without him, but it was no small feat to convince him. We’re allowed to spend one night at my parents’ house, then we’re driving straight home. No stops on the way there or the way back. No snack breaks or bathroom breaks, even for emergencies.

Wayne made me promise on that last point, which felt absolutely ridiculous, but then he blocked the front door and scowled until we all went to the bathroom before we left the house, so I don’t doubt his seriousness.

It wouldn’t surprise me if he tracks Freddie’s phone the entire time and calls us the second we veer off course.

“Your tires look good,” Wayne says through my open window. “But if anything happens, you only call me. Understood?”

“Yes, Dad,” I say, and he scowls one more time.

“Bye, Wayne,” Freddie says, leaning across me to make eye contact with his head of security. “Enjoy a couple days off. You deserve it.”

He mumbles something incoherent, then finally steps away from the car.

I start down Freddie’s long, winding driveway, but I haven’t made it a hundred feet before Carina leans up from the backseat and grabs my phone.

“Hey,” I say, meeting her gaze through the rearview mirror.

“If I don’t get the front seat, I at least get to control the music,” she says.

“I don’t mind if you sit in the front,” Freddie says, but I quickly shake my head.

“Don’t let her guilt you,” I say. “You’re six feet tall. You get to sit in the front.” I look at Carina one more time. “Just don’t pick anything stupid.”

The touchscreen on the car flickers to life and shows the connection to my phone. Then Midnight Rush’s first album blasts through the speakers, Freddie’s very young, very high, barely pubescent voice on lead vocals.

He winces, then groans. “Geez. I don’t think I can hit any of those notes anymore. ”

Carina laughs. “I’m not even sure I can hit those notes.”

“We don’t have to listen to this if you don’t want to,” I say, but Freddie only grins.

“Nah. It’s fun. We can see how many of the words I remember.”

Turns out that number is impressively high. He sings pretty much every word, making it easy for Carina and me to join in.

When we reach the end of the album, he looks over at me and grins. “Not a fan, huh? Isn’t that what you told me when we met?”

Heat climbs up my cheeks. “What? Why do you say that?”

“This is old music, Ivy. And you know it.”

“Just because I wasn’t a fan doesn’t mean I lived under a rock.”

“You just sang every single word of every single song,” he says. “That doesn’t happen without some effort.”

“I did not sing every word,” I practically huff.

“Yeah, you did,” Carina says. “When did that happen? You really weren’t a fan when we were kids.”

“See?” I say to Freddie. “I didn’t lie to you.”

“So, you’ve been listening to Midnight Rush since then?

” he asks. The amusement in his voice makes me want to punch him directly in the nose.

Except his nose is far too pretty to risk breaking it, so maybe a punch in the gut would be better.

But then I would feel his abs, and that feels more dangerous, so maybe I should break his nose.

“Your silence is telling, Ivy,” Freddie says. “I think I figured you out. You started listening to my music after we met. Was I really that charming? ”

My eyes dart to his for a split second, and they are practically dancing. He is enjoying himself way too much.

“Shut up,” I tease. “You were insufferable. But I wanted to be good at my job, and I figured that meant I needed to understand your catalog. So I listened. It’s not a big deal.”

“You listened…enough to learn all the lyrics. That’s dedication.”

“I take my work responsibilities very seriously.”

“Right. But I’m not in Midnight Rush anymore, so…”

I breathe out an exasperated sigh. “Fine. It started as research, but then I ended up liking the music, and it was basically all I listened to for three solid months. Is that what you want me to admit?”

He chuckles. “Exactly that.”

“You’re horrible.”

“I think what you mean to say is that I'm the lead singer of your favorite band,” he says with a smirk.

He and Carina pass the phone back and forth for the next couple of hours, taking us on a musical journey from the wildly popular to the completely obscure.

We laugh, we joke, and I mostly forget to be tense around Freddie. To wonder if he’s thinking about the kisses we’ve shared as much as I am. I just have fun. It feels really good. And serves as a reminder of why I like him so much.

But then Freddie turns on another Midnight Rush song, this one from the last album they released before the band split up. He’s singing lead vocals, as always, and both his voice and the lyrics are more mature than the band’s earlier stuff.

I grip the steering wheel as the opening verse plays over the speakers. For once, Freddie isn’t singing along, and when I glance over at him, he’s studying me closely .

At the line You’ve given me the kiss I can’t forget, You’ll always be the one I won’t regret , I force my gaze back to the road.

Did he pick this song on purpose? Is that why he’s watching me so closely?

It could just be a coincidence, but it’s been almost an hour since any Midnight Rush music has played. Why this one?

“You wrote this one, didn’t you?” Carina asks from the back seat, and Freddie clears his throat.

“Yeah, I did,” he says.

Carina leans up, tugging her seatbelt forward so her face is hovering in between us. “About who? Was there someone special who really did give you the kiss you couldn’t forget?”

Oh, I am going to murder my little sister. What is she doing? Is she trying to make me miserable?

“Absolutely not someone special,” Freddie says through a chuckle. “I mostly write about ideas more than specific people or situations.”

Carina meets my gaze through the rearview mirror, and I scowl at her, hoping she senses how much I really, really want her to change the subject.

She wrinkles her forehead like she has no clue what I’m talking about and lifts her shoulders into a shrug.

“That doesn’t feel nearly as romantic as you writing a song for someone specific,” Carina says. “Have you ever done it that way? Written a song about an actual person?”

I can’t keep myself from looking over at Freddie one more time. He meets my gaze, his expression pointed and intentional.

“Yeah,” he finally says as I force my eyes back to the road. “I have, actually. But not until recently. ”

Oh. Oh, man . Is he saying what I think he’s saying?

I don’t want to jump to conclusions. Recently could mean anytime in the last year. Or the last three years. It doesn’t have to mean now. And he only said someone and someone could be anyone.

But the way he just looked at me. It felt like he was telling me something, like he was willing me to read between the lines.

I’m deep into existential pondering about what life will be like if Freddie really has written a song about me when my phone buzzes with a text. With the music turned off, Siri decides to read the message out loud.

“Message from Laney,” Siri says. “How’s the trip going? Have you told him yet?”

I scramble to grab my phone and turn on Do Not Disturb mode just in case Laney texts again, then I let out a nervous laugh. “Ha. She’s probably talking about my dad. Just the other night I was…telling her all about his recent…tree thing.”

Carina leans forward and slips a hand around my arm before whispering, “It’s only going to get worse if you keep talking.”

Her whisper is definitely loud enough for Freddie to hear, and his shoulders start shaking from the passenger seat, but she’s right. Laney could have been talking about anyone, but my weird reaction made it perfectly clear she was talking about Freddie.

Now he’s going to spend the rest of our trip wondering what it is I’m supposed to tell him and why I haven’t yet.

“Stop laughing,” I say, though now my nerves are making me laugh too. “It’s not funny. ”

He looks over at me, warmth and humor in his eyes. “I mean, it’s a little funny.”

Carina at least has the sense to keep her mouth closed. For once.

“Come on,” Freddie says. “What is it? What are you supposed to tell me?”

“Absolutely nothing,” I say. “Because look.” I motion toward the enormous wooden sign on the side of the road that reads Conway Nursery. “We’re here.”

Freddie’s eyes are glued to the surrounding landscape as I turn onto the dusty gravel road that leads to my parents’ farm.

On either side of the road, rows and rows of Dad’s field-grown trees cut through the hillside.

Behind the house, several large greenhouses hold the smaller varieties he cultivates in pots and larger containers, but out here, maple, cypress, redbud, dogwood, and so many others grow for five, even ten years before they’re ready to sell.

“This is all your family’s?” Freddie asks, his eyes taking it all in.

I nod, happy to have a distraction that can pull us away from our previous conversation.

I’m keenly aware that it’s time to tell Freddie how I feel, even without Laney’s gentle prompting.

But I’ve had enough conversations with Carina or Wayne or the entire freaking internet watching or listening in.

Privacy with Freddie is hard to come by, but for this conversation, it’s worth waiting for.

Or so I tell myself to justify my procrastination.

I point across the field to our right. “There’s a swimming hole over in that cluster of trees,” I say. “We used to spend all summer out there.”

“Especially when the Benson brothers were home,” Carina says from the back seat .

“Who are the Benson brothers?” Freddie asks, and I grin, loving how jealous he sounds.

“Will, Brady, and Chad,” I say. “They grew up about a mile down the road.”

“And they loved to swim,” Carina adds.

“I’m sure they did,” Freddie says dryly, and I laugh.

“Will was my first kiss,” I say, watching Freddie’s reaction. “Brady was my second.”

His eyes widen. “Two brothers?” He’s smiling, despite his indignant tone.

“What?” I say innocently. “Will went off to college. His brother was absolutely fair game.”

“You should have waited around for Chad,” Carina says. “He was my first kiss, and it was epic.”

“I think I draw the line at kissing more than two brothers,” I say, and Freddie scowls, looking undeniably grumpy about the idea.

“Someone looks jealous,” Carina singsongs from the back, and Freddie huffs.

“I’m indignant,” he says. “That’s different.”

What he doesn’t do is protest. Act like he wouldn’t have reason to be jealous or indignant. And that realization makes me smile all the way to the end of my parents’ driveway.

When we finally reach the house, I shift into park, but Carina stops me before I can open my door.

“Wait,” she says. “What are we telling Mom and Dad?”

“About what?” I ask.

She scoffs like I’ve asked the stupidest question, then motions between me and Freddie. “About the two of you. They think you’re together for real, right? Are you going to tell them differently, or are we all pretending? ”

I’ve been so focused on how and when I’m going to tell Freddie the truth, I honestly haven’t even thought about what my parents think. But Carina’s question is a valid one.

I look over at Freddie. “What do you think?”

“I think…I’m happy to let your parents think we’re together,” he says slowly. Even carefully. Like his words were chosen intentionally.

It’s an interesting way to respond. He doesn’t say we should keep faking or that he’s happy to pretend. He says he’s happy for them to think we’re together.

Because he wants us to be together for real?

“I vote you don’t say anything,” Carina says. “Daddy would hate the lying.”

It’s the same thought I had when I decided not to tell my parents the truth, so it’s validating to hear Carina echo my concerns. But continuing to lie feels just as bad as telling him we’ve been lying. I don’t really want to do either one.

“If he hates lies, then we shouldn’t tell any,” Freddie says, eyeing me.

“Right. Good,” I say, though I have no idea what he’s suggesting. “So that means we just…”

“Be ourselves,” Freddie says, filling in the blank. “No more lies.”

I don’t have time to ask exactly what that means because my mother is already on the front porch with a wide smile on her face.

But no more lies can really only mean one thing, right? It means however we act around each other will be truthful. A reflection of how we really feel.

I can’t decide if I’m more excited or terrified to see what that looks like.