Page 122 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
I inch backward as the blush prickles my cheeks.
Ryder looks back at the internal mechanics of the music box. “Just kidding.”
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I watch as he settles onto the floor with the music box, completely absorbed in examining the tiny gears and springs inside.
“The winding mechanism looks okay,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “But this spring here is... yeah, it’s come loose.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Maybe. Do you have tweezers or something?”
I rummage through my nightstand drawer and find a pair of tweezers in my makeup bag. “Here.”
He takes them and goes back to work, his brow furrowed in concentration. It’s strange seeing him like this. Focused and careful. So different from the angry boy who yelled at me about broken equipment.
“There.” He winds the key slowly, testing it. Nothing happens.
His jaw clenches with determination, and he adjusts something else inside. He winds it again, and this time, a single note chimes out. Then another. The melody is halting, broken, but recognizable.
“It’s working!” I slide off the bed onto the floor beside him, unable to contain my excitement.
“Not quite.” He makes another adjustment. “One more try.”
He winds the key fully this time, and the music box plays. The melody flows out, slightly clunky and mechanical, just like I remembered.
I press my hand over my mouth as emotion floods through me. “You fixed it.”
“We fixed it,” he corrects, handing it to me.
I hold it carefully, listening to the familiar tune that I haven’t heard in years. The sound transports me back to my childhood,inside my bedroom, with Mom humming along while she braided my hair.
“Thank you,” my voice breaks on the words.
Ryder shifts beside me, and I realize we’re sitting very close on the floor, our backs against my bed.
“You okay?” he asks softly, warmth radiating from him.
I nod, still clutching the music box. “Yeah. I just... I didn’t think I’d hear this sound again.”
“Your dad would be glad it’s working.”
I wipe my eyes quickly. “He would.”
We sit listening to the music box wind down. When the last note fades, Ryder reaches over and winds it again without asking, as if he knows I need to hear it a little longer.
“This is what I wanted,” I say quietly.
“What?”
“Earlier, when you asked if I wanted to talk or be distracted.” I look at him. “This. Just this.”
Ryder’s expression softens. “Then we’ll stay here as long as you need.”
The music box plays on, filling my cold bedroom with something that feels like home.
Twenty-Three
Themusicboxwindsdown to its final notes. I carefully set it back on my nightstand, running my fingers over the worn wood one more time.
