Page 56

And that makes my fingers itch worse than ever to sit down and try my hand at playing.

She and I are looking at each other, that ever-present challenge in her eyes laid bare.

“That’s a great line,” I tell her.

She shakes her head. “Sorry?”

“‘I send ‘em packin’ like a bouncer with a blacklist.’ It’s a great line. That’s a song, right there.”

Her red lips stretch into a beaming smile.

“That really is.”

She pulls open a drawer in the ottoman, grabs a notebook and pen, and starts scribbling.

And because I can’t help myself, I lean in, watching over her shoulder as she writes.

When she stops after a line, she opens her mouth into an O and flaps the end of her pen against her cheek, making a popping sound.

This is her thinking face, I realize.

Not her “I’m stuck” face.

I wait as she waits, keeping myself from making a suggestion until she looks at me.

“How do I want to say that?”

“Maybe, ‘You think you want in? Take a number, get in line.’”

“‘But don’t try to get under my skin, I’ll be—I’ll be fine,’” she says, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm.

She writes it down in a blurring scrawl, and we continue that way until we hear a knock at the bus door a half hour—and most of a song—later.

Her eyes fly to meet mine, and I don’t think I’m imagining the reluctance when she stands.

“That’s my family.” She laughs, shakes her head, putting the pen down. “I literally forgot where we were.”

I grab the pen and notebook and tuck them away in the drawer.

I close it firmly.

“I know the feelin’,” I tell her.

She holds her hand out for me to take, and even though I could drop her onto my lap with barely a tug, I let her pull me to my feet.

Her long, lithe fingers wrap around my hand.

“Want to go meet Winona?”

I frown.

“Are you sureyouwant that?”

“What, like you were going to stay on the bus all day. Even if I wanted that, Winona would tan my hide.”

“I’d actually like to see that …”

“Oh, stop.”