Page 86 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
When the last note fades into the quiet, neither of us speaks for a moment.
Ryder shifts on the stool, and when he looks at me, something settles into his expression that wasn’t there before.
“Better?” he asks softly.
I wipe my face with my sweater sleeve and almost smile.
He sets the guitar across his knees, turning it absently in his hands. “That’s the first time I’ve wanted to keep playing.” He says it quietly, almost to himself. “Usually I just want it to be over.”
I look up at him.
“When you relaxed...” He shakes his head slowly, as if he’s still working it out. “I stopped thinking about my hands, and waiting to mess up.” He glances at me, a little uncertain. “I just wanted to keep going. For you.”
I’m quiet for a beat, but my heart pounds.
“It’s like I’ve been playing for the wrong people,” he says, softer. “You didn’t need perfect. Nobody else has ever said that to me before.”
I bite my lip and shrug it off. “I’m not a record exec.”
“No. No, you’re not.”
I don’t know what to say to that. So I just look at him. This boy, who’s talented enough to fill stadiums, but falls apart in the quiet.
“Will you play again sometime?” I ask timidly. “Just for me?”
He meets my eyes, and there’s something unguarded in his expression. “Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”
The harmony between us brings a buzzing into my veins I haven’t felt in weeks. Part of me is so grateful I came here so I could meet Ryder and find his music. But that part is quickly engulfed by the icky black goo of guilt.
I only met him because my parents died.
My parents died because of my selfishness.
The tears prick at my eyes again. I just wish my parents could be here. I want a moment with them. To hold them. To share this with them.
I wipe under my eyes with the cuff of my sweater and take a shaky breath. “Why are there no TVs in this place?”
The question surprises him so much that he actually laughs. “What?”
“I haven’t seen a single one since I got here,” I explain, my voice still hoarse from crying. “I want to watch Cook-Out Champs.”
“Umm, okay?”
“Is Miranda anti-TV or something?”
Ryder sets the guitar back on its stand and looks at me with genuine confusion. “Isn’t there a TV in your bedroom?”
I shake my head. “Just antique furniture and creepy tree paintings.”
“Well, I have one,” he says, standing up and extending a hand to help me off the floor. “You can have mine.”
“You don’t have to…”
“Come on,” he interrupts, pulling me to my feet. “Let’s get you a TV.”
He leads me through the hallway to his bedroom, three doors down from mine. When he opens the door, it’s nothing like the Gothic grandeur of the rest of Miranda’s house. Withwarm lighting and comfortable furniture, it looks more like a luxury hotel suite. The room opens on a sitting area with two cream-colored chaise lounges positioned in front of a large flat-screen TV. Through an archway is a king-sized bed with plush coverings.
Ryder gestures at the television. “I can move this into your bedroom.”
