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“Come on in. I was, um, asleep, and I thought you were Shea. But you’re not. You’re Rascal, and you want to work on a song. Like that ever worked for us before.”
He walked in, then closed the door.
“We’re different people now, remember? More adult, at least that’s what we keep telling ourselves.” We stared at each other for an awkward moment while we stood in my small living room. “Are you okay?”
“Why? Don’t I look okay?” I slipped a hand through my hair, or at least I tried to. It seemed to be a bit knotted.
“Well, you look a little, I don’t know…” He stopped talking as his gaze swept over me, and not in a sexy, I want to jump your bones, way. More like he couldn’t quite make out what he was seeing.
“Why don’t you help yourself to a glass of wine?” I glanced at the bottle on the end table. It was empty. “There should be another bottle in the kitchen, along with a wine glass in the cupboard. Give me five to throw some water on my face and wake up. Writing lyrics takes a clear head, and right now, mine is a scattered mess.”
“Yeah. Sure. Or I can go, and we can meet up in the morning. It’s been a long day, and…”
“No, don’t be silly. Just give me a few minutes. We should talk. I made a schedule, kind of.” I shut the door behind him. “Have a seat. I’ll be right out.”
I motioned to my sofa, but I already knew he’d be uncomfortable on it. Rascal was simply too big for my world. He belonged on the ranch. We all did… even me. It was difficult to admit it, but if I was going to do this, to sing again with Rascal and the guys, as much as it scared me, I had to give up my mini-world and embrace the big, the bold, and everything in excess.
The thought scared the shit out of me. As if I were giving up part of my identity.
Who knew, I might grow to love big, horny cars and sprawling vineyard ranches with private music rooms?
Could happen.
I let out a sigh as I entered the bathroom, closing the door behind me. As soon as I gazed at myself in the mirror, that sigh threatened to turn into a scream.
“Oh my God!” I said to the mess in the mirror.
I looked like someone or something had dragged me around the house a couple times. I had green and blue ink stains on my right cheek, along with a crease that threatened to engulf my face. My mascara pooled in dark circles under my eyes, and my hair stood straight up on the clip that I’d kept pulling on. My shirt was twisted and a wrinkled mess, and one leg of my gray sweatpants was up around my knee. Then there were the red ink stains on my chin, and down the front of my shirt.
At this point, I couldn’t do anything but laugh at myself. This whole thing was making me crazy, and now I looked the part.
I pulled the clip out of my hair and ran a damp brush through the tangled locks until my hair looked human again. Then I tried to get the ink off my face with soap and water, but that didn’t work. I did, however, wash away any trace of makeup.
My life had turned into a chaotic mess, and I had the ink marks to prove it.
I slipped out of the bathroom and hurried to my bedroom to change. I pulled on a cream-colored sweater and black yoga pants. The sweater was oversized and comfy, but I still had ink on my face.
“Oh well,” I said as I exited my bedroom and spotted Rascal going over the long list on the whiteboard. He’d propped it up on a kitchen chair that he’d dragged into the living room.
But what was special was the song he was playing on his guitar.
“There’s a lot here, Connie,” he said, as he looked up at me and stopped playing his guitar. “Way more than I’d ever imagined.”
“I know. It’s crazy, right? Was that the song you wrote?”
“Yeah. I think I have most of it, at least the basic melody and the chorus, but I’d like the guys to hear it and add a little something extra to it. I don’t think it’s quite there yet.”
“Sounds good to me. I like it. I like it a lot.”
“Then maybe you can write some lyrics, and we might have our first song. But you’ve got so many things on this list, writing a song might send you over the edge. A lot of changes are happening for you. Are you ready?”
“I think I am, but first, I’d like to get the ink off my face,” I told him. “Or am I doomed to go through life with red ink stains on my chin?”
“Not a problem,” he said, standing to lean his guitar up against the wall near the front door. “Rubbing alcohol works the best, but a good quality hand sanitizer should work as well.”
“No rubbing alcohol, but I do have a hand sanitizer in my purse.”
“Before you rub your skin off, bring it here, and I’ll get it started.”
