“Do you ever feel … lonely in a crowd?” he finishes. His words come slowly. “I’m constantly surrounded by people back home. All around me, every minute of the day, people who keep telling me what’s best for me, who talkatme rather thantome, who assume so much and know so little.” He lets out a huff of breath, almost a chuckle. “It’s such a strange feeling … being surrounded by people, yet still feeling … so alone.”
I stare ahead. My eyes find the painting on the wall, the one of the sunset over a field of golden wheat. I hear the roars and the cheering and the whistling from mere hours ago when I stood on a stage with my guitar. All that howling and crying and shouting.
And the emptiness inside me.
“I feel so safe with you,” he murmurs. “Like I can be my real self. No filters. No secrets. You’re actually getting to know the real me, and … and I didn’t realize how much I needed that.”
The deeper his words get, the harder they land. I wonder if he feels more comfortable saying these things because he’s not really looking at me, with his head on my chest like it is. It’s probably a good thing, because my face is showing too much.
The real me…
“Yeah,” I finally say, if anything but to break the silence. “I … I know how it feels like. To …” My throat tightens. I swallowhard. “To feel lonely in a room full of people. Feel like everyone’s lookin’ my way, but no one sees me.”
“Let’s always ‘see’each other.” His hand is somewhere on my belly, gently caressing over the thin material of my shirt. “I’ll do that for you, and you can do it for me.”
I smile into his hair. “Deal.”
After that, we drift into another lull.
The only light on in the room other than the glow of the TV is a small lamp next to the window, where my eyes drift.
Don’t know if it’s the weight of his body on mine or the blurry reflection off the window next to that lamp that has me thinking whether anyone on this whole planet knows me at all.
If I’m not, in so many ways, like a person who doesn’t exist.
At least not anymore.
Chase Holt has eaten the real me alive.
What do I have to offer this sweet, small-town guy other than a shell of what I used to be? Young Austin, he’s gone. Timothy would have made the best boyfriend for him. I don’t even have to spend energy imagining the life they’d share. Their road trips and exciting adventures … the song writes itself.
That beautiful, imaginary life of ours, it’s just another clichéd love song I haven’t written yet. Fodder for lonely fools in a crowd of brokenhearted fans, desperate to believe in love. People who’ll inevitably go home totally alone, then realize Monday morning that every love song ever written is just a dream you’ll wake up from eventually.
It’s not much longer before I realize Timothy’s fallen asleep.
And I’m wide awake.
Chapter 11.
Timothy
Nothing compares to the delight of stretching against a set of cool, crisp sheets in the morning. I lift my head from the pillow, a sleepy smile on my face, and am mortified to see my reflection in the mirror across the room from me and what my hair’s doing.
I’m so stunned by my crazy hair, it takes me half a second to remember where I even am. I notice Austin’s gone. The bathroom door’s open, so he isn’t in there. Did he sneak off to get breakfast? Maybe some coffee because the room coffee sucks?
I get to my feet, aware suddenly of an urgent need to pee my brains out, and hurry to the bathroom while poking some serious crusties out of the corners of my eyes.
Or at least thatwasthe plan before I notice the letter and pen sitting on the table by the window.
I approach it, still poking at my eyes, then read.
Perhaps calling it a letter is doing it too much justice.
It’s more of a remark scratched on cheap hotel letterhead.
It reads: “I’m sorry, Timothy. You deserve more.”
I stand there for a very long time. I’m not gonna lie, I read the note about thirty times in a row. I forget I have to pee. I flip it over to see if there’s more. I set it down, then set myself down in the chair by the table, blinking, confused. The room feels deafeningly quiet. Every thought I have stings.