Page 140 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
This is the song we played together in his practice room. His voice comes in soft, vulnerable, and the entire venue seems to hold its breath.
“When the feedback finally dies, there’s nothing left but me...”
I’m lifting my camera, but my hands are shaking so badly I can barely focus.
“I heard she did it on purpose,” someone says behind me. “Like, for attention or something.”
“And the ghost of who I was before they told me who to be...”
Ryder’s voice climbs higher, and my hands freeze on the shutter button.
More loud whispers behind me. “Makes sense. She lives in his house. Super convenient.”
The song swells with Ryder’s emotion, and suddenly the whispers behind me are no more. Now I’m not the most interesting thing. Ryder’s heartfelt song has won their attention.
“The static fades to silence, leaves me standing here alone...”
I force myself to lift the camera again, and this time I can focus on Ryder and the music. Through the viewfinder, his eyes are closed, and every word pulls from somewhere deep within him.
And my heart knows the truth. He’s singing about me.
“And in the ringing emptiness, I hear myself calling home.”
Mom and Dad’s voices feel as if they’re right behind me.“You’re doing great, Sprout. We knew you could capture magic with this camera.”
I capture the moment his voice breaks. The vulnerability etched across his face. The way his hands move across the keys despite the crack in the casing.
The song ends, and for a moment, there’s absolute silence.
Then the crowd erupts.
Ryder opens his eyes and looks directly at me, and even from this distance, I can see the question there.
I lower my camera and nod as tears pool in my eyes.
Ryder Hamilton just stood in front of hundreds of people and said that broken things can heal. I remember the same words when we sat on my bedroom floor, as he held my music box in his strong hand.
Yes, Ryder, I heard it. I understand.
Twenty-Six
IbarelysawRyderafter the show.
One minute he was on stage, looking at me like I was the only person in the room. The next minute, men in suits surrounded him, sweeping into a VIP room I wasn’t invited to enter.
A woman from the Kensington Entertainment Group’s marketing team found me by the merch table. She had blue-black hair, a faded Nirvana T-shirt under a blazer, and ripped skinny jeans.
“Miranda said you got some incredible shots for us,” she said, holding out her hand for my camera. “Mind if I swipe the SD card? We’ll get it back to you. We just want to get them approved for socials ASAP while the buzz is hot.”
I handed it over, and she told me I’d be credited in the captions. She didn’t ask for my social handle, even though I don’t have one to give. But I shrugged it off, figuring they’d use my first and last name as the photographer.
The drive home was excruciating. Miranda in the front on her phone, and Ryder beside me in the back, also on the phone.He spent Sunday locked in meetings I could only hear through closed doors.
Now, back in the car on Monday morning, the wordawkwarddoesn’t do the silence justice.
Ryder shifts beside me, and his pinky brushes against mine in a tentative and questioning gesture.
It should feel electric, like it did in my bedroom, right before we kissed. Instead, it feels wrong. Almost performative. Like he’s checking a box.
