Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
I blink, shaking myself and wishing that was enough to clear my head. “Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. You look like someone just gave you the most insanely delicious box of chocolates, but they’re all the gross kinds you don’t like, and you’re disappointed beyond measure.”
Okay, what? How does he know I love chocolate, but that I’m also a chocolate snob, and anything beyond milk chocolate or anything with any sort of fruit filling is enough to make me gag? Throwback to my childhood when my mom thought dark chocolate could cure a number of woes, and forced it on me when I was already feeling not so great.
“It would be far more tragic to get the world’s most perfect coffee and then spill it before you can even take a sip,” I reason, à la distraction.
He leaves the mic alone and walks across the studio to me. I suddenly don’t know what to do with my body. “Coffee or chocolate, something’s wrong. What’s going on?” He stops himself just shy of hugging me, checking himself when he notes that he’s ridiculously sweaty.
“I…”
“I’m sorry that this is a lot.”
Shit. That’s the last thing I want him to say. And not hugging me is the last thing I want.
“I know I had to wear another disguise, and we haven’t been able to see each other in so long, or do anything more than text. I’ve been slowly dying, and most of it was from not seeing you. I know it’s not ideal, but I’m so honored you chose to be here with me. That you waited all these weeks and all this time. I know it’s not easy. I’m not easy. I’m sort of like that box of poopy chocolates and the spilled coffee.”
“No, you’re not.” My throat gets impossibly thick in a nanosecond. “Not at all. It’s hard, but hard things are just things that are worth fighting for.” Great. My attempt to use my mom’s wisdom just comes off clichéd and idiotic. “I wasn’t for a second thinking that I’m not glad I’m here. I’m not having regrets. The only doubts are just me being me and my brain braining in all the wrong ways.”
“My brain does that too.”
“I know.” I bite down on my bottom lip. That’s a rude thing to say, isn’t it? But I don’t just know because I’m Wilder’s friend or because I’ve been there in his life. I know from his songs and all the interviews he’s given. “Sorry, I shouldn’t say that. It’s not fair that I get to know you like that. I have an unfair advantage.”
“I want to know you too. Will you let me in? Will you tell me what you were thinking that was making you unhappy so I can fix it?” His face is so damn open and earnest. He’s sincere in all the right ways. How many people would kill to be looked at this way, no matter what? This was something I thought I’d never have. So why am I trying to ruin it?
“It was the why-me game. Why me when you could have anyone?” I admit. I hate the way his face falls like he’s the one who did something wrong. Because he didn’t.
He clenches his hands in front of him, then wipes them on his pants before setting them lightly on my shoulders. He looks me right in the face when he talks to me, making sure I have nowhere to hide. This way, he’s certain I have to hear him. “Because no one else is you. Because you’re brilliant, you’re kind, and you’re beautiful inside and out. Because you have no expectations of what I can do for you. You see me. You’ve always seen me. It’s still wild to me that out of all the songs I’ve ever written, these feel the most like me. When I sing them, I feel like I know who I am.”
“I’m so honored that you’d say that. I wrote them for you, but I wanted you to be able to take them and make them an echo of your heart and soul,” I say softly.
“When I sing them, I feel like I know who you are too.”
I study him warily. Is it the very definition of insanity to want someone for so long, to love them from a distance, and then, when they’re finally here, to suddenly need to protect myself against hurt that might not even happen? If that’s instinct, then my gut is telling me all the wrong stuff. Brain-gut. “That’s… I don’t even know what to say.”
“You’ve written an entire collection of music that is beyond special. It’s love. It’s hate. It’s sorrow and celebration. It’s living, it’s questioning, and it’s dying. It’s youth and it’s old age, but it’s also right in the here and now. I have no idea how you did it. You’re a real artist. You’re a songwriter and an astounding poet. And you know what? You’re awesome. You know you’re awesome. Tell me that you know it.”