A COUPLE DAYS before I leave to visit my parents for the holidays, I sit on the couch with my guitar, thinking about what I promised Jamie. My notebook lies open on the coffee table with a pen in the crease. My mind flicks from the song I heard in the restaurant to the way Zach laughed at me to the way he asked, “Have you met Layla?” the night of the wrap party.
I glare out the window at the moody gray sky. What a dick.
Anger knots in my stomach, and I begin to write a song about getting mad. The lyrics halt and flow as I find my footing, but within a few minutes, I have half a page of lyrics and a few chord progressions.
“Betcha thought you’d get away with it,” I sing quietly, but I cringe.
That doesn’t sound right, so soft like that.
I try again, but this time I belt it out. Sparks crack and pop under my skin as I smile big.
There we go. That’s the right feeling.
The added attitude opens something up inside me, and the words tumble out faster than I can write. I’m pissed off, but the song isn’t about being stepped on—this song is about getting back up. It’s about getting revenge but in my own way, by letting him go. Saying goodbye to the guy who hurt me, but vowing to prove him wrong. It’s about all the discomfort and pain being worth it because I’m going to be so much better and brighter than before.
Writing this song feels fucking fantastic. My eyes well up with emotion as I smooth over the chorus, connecting with the next verse, and when the song is polished enough, I set my phone on the coffee table and record a version so I don’t forget the tune. I feel like a kid again, sprinting down a hill without a care in the world. This feels right, like this is my purpose.
I love this song, and I’m proud of myself for writing it. I think Jamie would be proud, too.
On a whim, I text the recording to him. My heart jumps around in my chest, and I suck in a breath. Was that weird, that I sent it to him? He’s probably busy in a practice or training. I stare at the phone for a moment before tossing it aside and jumping up to take Daisy on her lunchtime walk.
When we get home from the walk, I see a text from him.
Thatta girl, the message reads, and something warm bursts in my chest. You should play this one when we go to the Filthy Flamingo next.
Maybe, I text back, smiling.
You will, he says, and I chuckle.
Bossy.
He responds with a winking emoji, and I bite my lip before catching myself. What did I just tell myself a few weeks ago after he made me come against the door?
Absolutely no falling for Jamie Streicher. He’s damn near perfect, and I can’t bear to watch him turn into an asshole like Zach. If we’re just friends, he can’t hurt me.
I have a training session starting, he says. I’ll talk to you later, songbird.
Every time he calls me that, I get a rush of happiness through my chest. I picture him smiling at me, that rare, broad, sparkling smile that makes me want to stare at his face forever.
It’s not fair that he’s so hot. It’s not fair that I have to see him every day.
A tune pops into my head and I giggle.
“It’s not fair that you’re so hot,” I sing, playing a few chords, and I laugh again.
I write a song about how hot Jamie is. I’m laughing the entire time, scribbling down lyrics and trying different combinations, and within an hour, I have the outline of the song.
By late afternoon, I have a handful of rough songs. One is about wanting someone but knowing they’re wrong for you. One is about struggling with people’s expectations and choosing what makes you happy in the end. One is about really, really good sex with someone new. I like that one—it’s seductive and playful, and I wrote it thinking about sitting between Jamie’s legs while he made me come.
I’m fueling that flame in my chest, addling kindling to make myself burn brighter. This is the pretend album I always daydreamed about writing when we were on a flight to a new city on the tour or when Zach was in the studio recording.
One song is about how Jamie takes care of everyone but himself, and who takes care of him? It’s serious and protective. There’s a lyric in there that just fell out of my mouth, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.
I’d do it forever if it wouldn’t break my heart.
My throat feels tight as I swallow, reading that line. I should scratch it out, but I can’t. The best songs are honest.
Daisy’s staring at me, wagging her tail, so I take her out again for a long walk. The whole time, my mind is on Jamie, and on the songs I wrote.
The forest is dark, so we stick to the lit streets. The trees along the sidewalk are decorated for Christmas with pretty twinkling lights, and worry hits my stomach. I still haven’t gotten Jamie a present.
Anything he wants, he can buy. He has a beautiful apartment. He doesn’t need clothes or hockey equipment. He seems to enjoy cooking, but what am I going to get, a whisk? I cringe. That’s so lame, and it feels wrong for our relationship. I work for him, but we’re friends, too.
If I asked him, he’d tell me not to get anything, but that’s because he doesn’t realize that he’s worth it.
We pass the guitar store, and my eyebrows snap together. My dream guitar is gone, replaced with a black Fender electric.
Something sinks in my chest. I couldn’t afford it, so I don’t know why I’m so disappointed.
Jamie’s bright eyes and his determined expression appear in my head. Once I figure things out—however that will look—I’m going to save for a new guitar. Something special, just for me. Jamie will be happy to hear that. He’d be proud of me if he knew I spent the whole afternoon writing.
A realization hits me.
I wrote that album for Jamie. I thought about him the entire time, and when the impostor syndrome crept in, I remembered his words of encouragement and his warm looks of affection, and it spurred me on. I’ve never written even one song for someone, let alone a collection of them, and no one has ever encouraged me the way Jamie has.
It’s like he thinks I can do anything.
The truth is obvious, and no matter how hard I deny it or try to compare him to Zach, it’s not going away.
I have major feelings for Jamie Streicher.
Now I just have to figure out what to do about it.
