Page 39 of Love on the Tracks
And this boredom is killing me. I’m not supposed to read, so books and the internet are out, and at the moment, I can’t stand to listen to music. Usually if I want cheering up, I’d listen to License to Game, but the only thing I’ll probably hear in those songs from now on is Zane’s voice, and it will remind me of heartbreak.
It might be stupid, but I thought . . .
Doesn’t matter what I thought. I roll over on the couch, trying to find a comfortable way to lie, and pull the blanket up to my chin. Maybe I can sleep, and when I wake up I’ll be that much closer to going home. I’m hoping I’ll be well enough to make the closing ceremony, but neither my dad or my doctors are making any promises.
From the other room, I hear the low drone of the TV. My dad must be watching one of his news shows while he goes about his morning routine. It’s what he does. The shower turns on and I try to tune the rest out, letting the chatter on the TV get subsumed by the white noise of the spray. Something nags at me, though.
It’s not the roar of the crowd, but it’s the pitch or the tone or something? Maybe it’s the concussion talking, but there’s something about the sound that’s familiar. Since I’m unlikely to be able to sleep without figuring it out, and sleeping is the only thing I want to do right now, I get off the couch—careful to stand slowly in case I get dizzy—and head into the bedroom to shut the damn thing off. Dad can deal with silence for a few minutes, or maybe I’ll turn on the radio.
When I get into the room, a familiar sight greets me on the TV. It’s the SIG set ofTalk America, and sitting with the anchors is Zane. The sight of him makes me want to turn the TV off, but some masochistic part of me wants to see what he’s doing there. Is this something that was planned before we got together? Was I supposed to be there with him? Then a truly sickening thought hits me—maybe there’s some other fangirl SIG athlete they’re going to bring on, and he’ll start a fake romance withher.
But that’s entirely unfair. Zane is a much better person than that, and when I look closer, he doesn’t look happy to be there. The corners of his eyes look tight, and he’s forcing a smile. He never looked that way when he was with me. Whatever this is, it’s hard on him, and even though he crushed me, I don’t want him to suffer.
I pull my robe tighter around me and try to focus.
“So, I hear we’re in for a special treat today?”
Someone from the crew carries a guitar onstage, and I recognize it before they even hand it over—it’s Zane’s. Not the one he plays at concerts, but the one he brings everywhere. The one scratched and worn from being loved by a guy since he was a kid. And he’s playing it onTalk America?
My stomach starts to feel like a pile of dough being kneaded as Zane thanks the crew member with a smile, his dimples showing even though it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“You could say that.”
“What else would we call a never-been-heard License to Game song?”
There’s an odd silence, as if everyone there’s used to having a live audience to supply applause, but there isn’t one in the makeshift studio. In response to the anchor’s over-the-top enthusiasm, Zane looks sheepish. “It’s not actually a License to Game song.”
“Color me intrigued.” The anchor leans forward and sets her chin on a hand. It would be comical if my stomach didn’t feel like pizza dough being tossed in the air.No freaking way.
“I’ve been thinking about starting a solo project for a while—”
“And we get the first listen? Who would’ve thought there’d be something even more exciting than the men’s snowboard cross finals going on today? But you might be topping it.”
“No, I don’t want to steal anyone’s thunder. Those athletes, man. They work so hard, and make crazy amounts of sacrifices, and they only get to show off for two weeks every four years. I don’t want to ruin their moment in the sun. I just need to . . . I wanted to . . . There’s someone I owe an apology to, and I wasn’t sure they’d hear it any other way.”
He dips his head then, puts his fingers to the strings, and before playing the chord I know is going to come, he looks up one more time. “This is supposed to be a duet, so I apologize for it being just me.”
Zane doesn’t give the bewildered anchor a chance to respond before he starts to play. A tune I’d recognize anywhere, a song I’ve heard a hundred times. He’s fine-tuned it—a flourish here, a slightly different chord progression there—but fundamentally, it’s the same. This is the song he sang to me, that I helped him write. This is the song I hummed until I fell asleep and he tried to teach me the chords to while I sat between his legs and he wrapped his arms around me.
Tears well in my eyes as his mouth forms the familiar words.
Sleep sweet my angel, sleep sweet my star.
I will love you wherever you are.
You’re mine to hold, you’re mine to keep.
I’ll keep you close while you sleep the sweetest sleep.
Holding up the world, you could stand fierce with no one.
You learned the hard way that’s how it has to be done.
I don’t want to take that from you, steal your pride,
If you need to prove yourself, I’ll simply stand by your side.
This is no lullaby, just the promises I’ll keep,
