Page 85 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
Ryder blinks, clearly taken aback. “What?”
“Play for me,” I repeat, my voice still thick with tears. “A song. Anything. Please?”
He stares at me for a moment, as if trying to understand what I’m asking for. Then he nods, releasing me just enough to take my hand.
“Okay. Come on.”
He leads me through the hallway to his practice room. I haven’t dared to come this way since my spectacular entrance when I first arrived. Ryder settles onto a stool and lifts an acoustic guitar onto his lap. I sink to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest as the wall anchors behind me.
Ryder positions his hands on the guitar, pauses, and watches me with uncertainty. “Umm, are you sure you’re okay?”
I drop my gaze, not trusting my eyes to clear up, and whisper, “Please, play for me.”
Silence.
I look up. His hands are resting on the strings, but not moving. His jaw is tight, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor between us.
“Ryder.”
“I know.” His voice is low. “Just give me a second.”
I wait with chin resting on my knees, watching him. The practice room feels very small and very quiet.
“It’s just...” He exhales through his nose. “You’re looking at me.”
“I won’t look.” I press my face into my knees, hiding my eyes. “Please. I just need something to hold on to right now.”
A long pause. Then the soft creak of the stool as he shifts his weight.
His fingers find the strings. A chord. Then another. Then his hand stiffens, and the notes collapse into something ugly and broken.
“Sorry.” He mutters it like a curse word.
“Don’t be.”
“I can feel you needing it.” His voice is tight and frustrated. “And now my hands won’t...”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not. This is exactly what happens when—“ He stops himself, fumbling another chord, and breathes out sharply. “I’m sorry, Alice. I want to help you, but I can’t even...”
“Ryder.” I lift my head. My eyes are still wet, but I hold his gaze. “The stumble is my favourite part. Remember?”
He stares at me.
“I’ve memorized the imperfections in your Late Show performance. I wait for them.” I swallow hard, my voice still hoarse. “I don’t need it to be perfect. I just need it to be real.”
Something in his expression shifts, and the tightness around his jaw loosens slightly.
His fingers move again, tentatively at first, picking out a simple melody one note at a time. A wrong note creeps in and he doesn’t stop. The melody catches and holds, uneven and searching, like something finding its footing in the dark.
I let my head fall back against the wall and close my eyes. The song doesn’t sound like anything I’ve heard from him before. My breathing slows without me thinking about it.
I open my eyes after a while and find him watching me. Not checking on me the way he did at the pond, anxious and uncertain. Just watching. The furrow between his brows has gone, and his shoulders have dropped. His hands move across the strings as if they’ve forgotten to be afraid.
The more I soften, the more he plays.
Every chord change becomes more deliberate and fluid. The song personifies a warm embrace. My tears dry up, and I’m no longer gasping for breath.
