“Are you asking me to prove I can?”

She shows me the world in front of her as she leaves the coffee shop. Across the street is a town square with trees and benches. “Weren’t you supposed to be writing me one, by the way?”

I smile at her bratty tone. “Maybe this is your song. I just haven’t told you yet.”

She crosses to the square and passes shrubs, bare until spring. “Tell me the lyrics, then.”

My hand adjusts on the neck, and I play the first few notes again while staring at the notebook beside my phone. I’ve filled pages these past weeks, a common theme developing in the lyrics. Words I’ve never used before like darlin’ and maroon. Lines about my hands and her body and her devastating siren call.

“Nah, baby. Not until I sing it for you.” I look back to the screen. “This is a switch-up. Where are you taking me on our tour?”

She laughs as she passes a sign stabbed in the ground for the Ashfield PTA bake sale. “I’m about to show you the best my town has to offer.” She swings to a dead-for-winter flower bed with equal parts faded mulch and cigarette butts.

“I really appreciate how the artist incorporated that plastic cup into the neutral color palette.”

“A masterpiece, truly,” she deadpans. Then she swipes the cup and tosses it in a trash can. “I’m going to the house. I only have so much tolerance for this uniform and need it off.”

Despite an easy opening to suggest she strip for me, my eyebrows draw together. Maybe I’m more sensitive to it because of Chase being a dick, but I ask, “Not your house? Not home?”

“It’s my stepdad’s house. I live there, for a little while longer anyway, but it’s definitely not mine.” She proceeds to pierce me straight through my goddamn heart, adding, “My dad was my home. I lost it when I lost him.”

I huff a breath. The fucking timing. The universe must be bored, playing matchmaker with broken pieces, and ours just aligned.

“I don’t have a home either.”

She’s quiet for a second. “Will you tell me why sometime?”

“Yeah.” My lips tilt up, and I start strumming again. “You showed me yours, so…”

“Can I tell you something?” she asks, more light to her. I hum in response, and she wanders to a tree, spinning when she reaches it, giving a different view of the scenery. “I got approved to graduate early. I finish school in December at the end of the semester.”

“Look at you. Then what?”

“I leave and never come back. At least that’s the next step in the plan. Save every penny, graduate early, and move anywhere else until I start NYU next fall.”