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That sounds so fucking boring.
Or more like fucking scary.
I don’t know what I want, and I feel like my mind changes on the daily. I’m only nineteen, for fuck’s sake. I have options still.
Plenty of options. I could tour again. Rent out a studio and create my own album. Produce it. Make it all mine. Or I could cave and accept a record deal. But then I wouldn’t be able to make music on my terms. And right now, that’s the most important thing to me.
My gaze goes to Ellie one more time like I can’t help myself and she’s smiling. Beautiful. The prettiest I’ve ever seen her.
An idea forms in my head, and I shove it away. But it keeps coming. In a string of words. Lyrics.
Pulling my phone out, I start typing in my notes, getting the words down before I forget. But soon, it’s as if I forget everything happening around me, and I’m lost in the song. The melody. Imagining the chords. The chorus. The entire song.
For Ellie.
Ten
Ellie
Jackson: I wrote a new song.
That’s what I wake up to. A text from Jackson on Sunday morning. It’s almost nine, which is irritating because I’d wanted to sleep in, but my internal clock didn’t let me.
I check when Jackson sent the text. 7:48 a.m.
What the hell? He had a game last night too. Not that he played. I went with the girls to watch and Jackson didn’t step foot on that field once. I was disappointed. He’s so much fun to watch play, both music and football, but the coaches don’t seem to ever give him a chance. They keep this up, and he’ll eventually quit.
Music has to be calling his name. He can make money from that. Big money. Football? I don’t see him going pro. Not even close. Not that he’s bad—he just never plays.
A sigh leaves me. I’m still mad at him over how he acted at the party Friday night, interrupting my conversation with Carson. Jerk. He acted faintly territorial over me, though I don’t think Carson even noticed.
We’re going to the movies tomorrow night, Carson and me. My one night off this week, since I’m working so much. I’m excited.
Me: What’s it called?
The gray bubble pops up, telling me he’s responding, and I’m shocked. Why is he up so early?
Jackson: Prettiest I’ve Ever Seen You.
Me: Sounds romantic.
Jackson: It’s a little dirty.
Me: Really? Is it about one of your hookups over the summer?
Ugh. I don’t want to know. But I say that because we both know hookups happened. I need to acknowledge them, cling to them, so I can remember why I’m not interested in Jackson any longer.
Because he’s never really been interested in me. He gets with other girls all the time. While I’m sitting at home, waiting for him. It’s pitiful.
Pathetic.
I refuse to be that girl. Not anymore.
Jackson: No. It’s about a mythical girl.
Me: Mythical?
Jackson: Unattainable.
