One Song Away
Authors: Molli Moran
| One Song Away |
| Molli Moran |
| Molli Moran (2014) |
One Song Away
By Molli Moran
Copyright 2014 Molli Moran
All Rights Reserved
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Cover design by
Marie Landry
Also by Molli Moran
As You Turn Away (The Walker Boys #1)
Table of Contents
For every girl who didn’t belong, but learned how to make her own place in the world.
For all the rebel belles.
I’m waiting in line at the dry cleaner’s when the bell above the door announces a new entry, and I swear I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand. I ignore the shudder crawling over me and focus on my phone. One of the songwriters I follow online just shared the news that a song he wrote is going platinum. I’m thrilled he’s finding success, but it’s one more reminder of how far I am from the goals I set when I moved here.
I wanted to be a well-known songwriter by the time I was twenty-two, not still embodying the definition of “starving artist” and sharing an apartment with the Wicked Witch of Music City.
“Well, if it isn’t Miss Wright. Looking for your Mr. Right?” He chuckles at his quip as though it’s the funniest thing ever. Like he hasn’t made the same joke so often it stopped being funny.
Turning slowly, I force myself to take a deep breath. I fight the impulse to stomp my stiletto on his foot as hard as I can. Or rip his hand off my shoulder. I’ll instantly lose the upper hand if I let myself unleash the machine-gun round of retorts I’ve saved, or hurt him physically the way he hurt
me
emotionally.
Gideon Price’s expression is deceptively innocent. I wonder why he’s making this effort. His gray eyes are wide and warm, but his laughter dies as he catches sight of my face. I can’t see what I look like, but I can imagine. I’ve practiced the fierce expression enough times in the mirror, anticipating these sporadic run-ins with him. I keep hoping each one will be the time when seeing him doesn’t sting.
“Gideon.” Taking his hand briefly, I drop it. “What are you doing?”
I haven’t seen him in almost two weeks, so I mistakenly hoped he left for Hollywood as he keeps claiming he will. My ex thinks of himself as a “retail slave slash actor.”
I
think of him as an “asshole slash moron.” We obviously have
vastly
different opinions on the subject.
“What, I can’t even
talk
to you now?” He ruffles his hair, sending the blond strands into disarray. “I thought we were past all the bullshit.”
If I didn’t know any better, I would say he’s hurt. But Gideon, despite lack of luck in his chosen profession, is actually a talented actor. He can cold read a scene and make anyone believe he
is
the character. He commands any room he’s in, draws glances and smiles and loyalty. I’m outside his inner circle now, so it’s less inspiring and more terrifying how easily everyone loves him. How easily
I
loved him.
“What bullshit, Gideon?” Making air quotes that will annoy him, I cross my arms over my chest. “Is the pain I feel over our break-up bull? Just because
you
didn’t feel anything real doesn’t mean it went both ways.”
“I’ve told you I did care about you…”
“Right.” I smirk. “You cared
so
much
you waited two whole days after we ended things before you started dating someone new.”
Gideon takes a step toward me. Before I can move out of his reach, he captures one of my hands in his. The feel of his skin against mine jolts me back four months, to nights when I stood by his side at play after-parties or dinners with friends, enjoying the secondhand high from being near him. I’ve never believed in the “love is a drug” mentality, but with Gideon, I got it. I understood how people who needed love as validation could think of it as a drug. I was too close to becoming one of those people, which is one of many reasons I’m glad we broke up when we did.
“Sophie, I never said I was perfect.” He gives me a smile he’s definitely practiced. In another life he’d have been a con man, and the bastard would have made it seem legit. “Can’t we both admit we made some mistakes?”
“You call cheating on me a
mistake
?” I let out a too-shrill laugh. “You’re right, it was. It was a mistake on
your
part, but it made me see who you really are.” I snatch my hand away from him again. “I’ll be the first one to own
my
mistakes, Gideon, but the only one I made with you was staying too long.”
“Sophie, please…” His voice is the thinnest thread, spooling between us. The tone makes me remember wine-infused kisses, nights going over his lines, watching him transform into different people, and laughing at his horrible accents.
I glance past him. His Prius is parked by the door, and a drop-dead gorgeous brunette is leaning against it. She winks when she sees me looking at her. I don’t want Gideon anymore, but I swear I can feel my blood boil.
“It looks like you’ve got someone waiting on you,” I say from between clenched teeth.
Freakin’ guys. I care less about the fact he’s dating someone else, and more about the fact I’m
not
. It’s not like I haven’t
tried
dating since our break up, but after several failed attempts, I’ve hit a wall. Seeing him with someone new is another reminder of one more goal I haven’t met. I’ve never thought I needed a significant other to feel whole, but I
have
always wanted the sort of all-encompassing love I’ve seen portrayed in films and books.
I know I’ll never find it by sitting passively on the sidelines and hoping Mr. Right stumbles across me. I’m not still clinging to the hope of Gideon shaping up and wanting me back, but I also haven’t found anyone new. I’m not afraid of being alone, but I
am
lonely.
Despite how much I love Nashville, it feels less welcoming lately, and more like the definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. I’m growing so disheartened of rejections.
Gideon’s shoulders slump. “She’s just…”
“Just what?”
“A distraction.” His voice is so quiet that I almost miss his words. I study the way the light clings to his eyelashes. He hasn’t met my gaze again, and I wonder if maybe…
“Sophie Wright?”
The moment ends. Turning, I face the counter. The clerk has my dress ready, so I pay her and take my garment bag. Once we’re done, I step out of the way so Gideon can move forward in line. I carefully fold the bag over my arm, too aware there’s so much I would say if things were different. As it is, I can’t fall under his spell again. I can’t go back now.
“I’ll see you around, Gideon.”
I’m headed toward the mall before I let a huge sigh escape. I know I just dodged a bullet, because I was tempted to believe my ex, which would have been a huge mistake. Even if he
did
care about me in some way, I still got burned. Being alone is hard, but my self-respect is worth it.
___ ___ ___
Changing positions, I dare another glance in the mirror, but my reflection is as stubborn as I am. Nothing changes. They aren’t flattering at all. Wrinkling my nose, I watch my mirror image do the same, nose ring glinting in the overhead lights. I sigh, because I can contort until I’m a pretzel, but these jeans won’t fit any better than they already do.
Dammit.
I love my body, especially my curves, but I
wanted
these pants. After seeing my ex, I decided on some retail therapy, but it’s been a big flop.
“Soph?” The voice floating out of my phone is a jolt back to reality.
I scoop my phone from the bench in the fitting room, resuming the staring contest I’m having with myself. “I’m still here.” I pinch the tag between two fingers and blow out a breath that ruffles my side bangs. Between the fact I don’t
need
these pants
and
the fact they don’t fit how the sales clerk claimed they would, I won’t be buying them. I growl under my breath.
“Was that a grumble?” My best friend’s voice is amused, even through spotty cell reception. At least one of us is.
“No…yes. Maybe.” I let go of the price tag reluctantly. “The clerk went on and on about how amazing these jeans would look on me, but the sad truth is the cuteness of clothes decreases in direct proportion to the size increasing.” With a shake of my head, I peel myself out of my new second skin. “Why can’t I find adorable clothes like
you’re
always wearing?”
“Hmmm… Maybe because you’ve got curves like whoa and an ass I’d
die
to have?” Sloane laughs.
“Says the girl who probably hasn’t ever weighed over a buck twenty soaking wet,” I say, but I’m grinning. I wriggle into my pants again. They may be a size bigger than what I just tried on
and
a Goodwill special, but they fit comfortably. “I didn’t know you were so envious of my ass. I always thought you were my friend because of our shared love of bad romantic comedies.” I let out a purposefully melodramatic sigh. “Was it all a lie?”
Sloane tries to speak through her giggles, but she lets a snort slip out, and it takes her a few more seconds to regain control. “I
miss
you, Wright.
And
your butt.”
“I miss you, too. Thanks for suffering through me trying on clothes.” Grabbing everything, I exit the dressing room, jeans dangling from a hanger in my hands. The sales clerk must have been waiting outside the fitting rooms, because she’s on me as soon as I step into the main part of the boutique.
“How did everything fit?”
I wince. “They were too tight.” When I hand her my things, her lips round into a pout. I shrug as I head toward the door. I can put money I didn’t spend here toward other things, like gas, food, and if I’m
very
lucky, a bottle of wine this weekend. Something tells me I’ll need it after the last few days, especially after today’s Gideon encounter. They always leave me worn out and frustrated.
“You just crushed that girl’s hopes.” There’s music in the background so I know she must be stretching after her run. As long as I’ve known her, Sloane Delgado has run several miles each day. I ran a mile. Once.
“That’s me, Sophie-Claire Wright, crusher of dreams.” I tuck my hair behind my ears, but taming it is a constant losing battle. Ever since my “cleansing” a few months ago (which was just an excuse to chop layers into the long hair my ex claimed he loved, and burn all our pictures in a tequila-fueled rage), my hair has a mind of its own.
Sloane chuckles. “On that
slightly
power-hungry note, I’ll let you go.” I can picture what she looks like right now, dark eyes shining, mouth open in a messy, real laugh, tan skin flushed. It makes me wish I were with her. “I love you, and I hope you can visit soon.”
“I love you too, bitch.”
“Jerk.” But her tone is like bright sunshine on the first warm day after a long winter.
After Sloane and I hang up, I linger by my car, watching the world rush around me. Everyone but me is going somewhere. I could stand here for hours and never see the same person. On any given day, I see people from all walks of life. I have friends here from various other parts of the world, friends who speak other languages, whose lives are totally different from mine. I love the diversity.
I
love
living here. Nothing could make me leave. I love the food, the sights, the atmosphere. In a few more hours the tableau will change to nightlife: twangy cover bands, restaurants, endless drinks, and tall neon signs.
But after talking with my best friend, I can’t stop thinking about home. Martinville is a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it town where old men in overalls still gather at country stores in the mornings to drink their morning coffee and gossip about their lives. It’s the sort of place where everyone from your hairdresser to your waitress knows you, your family,
and
your business. It’s the kind of place where you die famous even if your biggest feat was stealing the neighboring town’s mascot on Homecoming night. (Not something I’d know
anything
about…)
I don’t regret leaving, because leaving brought me
here
. But sometimes home feels too far away, especially lately, so I drag a corner of it into my world.
Sighing, I head home. I don’t live far away, so it’s a quick drive. When I get there, I let myself in, and I’m wondering about dinner when I spot a note on the kitchen table. My name is written on it in Mara’s flowing handwriting. I drop into a chair, exhaling slowly. Mara never leaves me notes. She prefers to bitch at me in person.
Sophie-Claire,
I didn’t want to do this in person, so here it is: I have someone else who wants to move into the apartment, so I need you to be out in the next week. We’ve never really gotten along anyway, so I’m sure you’re no sadder than I am about this. Best of luck with the songwriting.
Mara
I read the note again before it really sinks in: I’m being kicked out of my home. Living here isn’t always easy, but it’s the only place I can afford. Without the security of a place to live, I can only think of one option.
Sloane might be seeing me sooner than she thinks.