Page 60 of Fight For Me

It feels wrong to leave her, but the dog needs to go out. Besides, what do I think I’m going to do? Read her a bedtime story and tuck her in? I’ve already fucked up enough tonight.

“I’m a damn idiot,” I tell George while he does his business in a patch of grass in front of the condo building. “I couldn’t have handled that any worse if I tried.”

He gives me one of his baleful looks and I chuckle—he looks like he’s commiserating.

Back upstairs, I see the light on in Alex’s bedroom, the door wide open. I stand in the hallway for a long moment before finally giving in to the urge to check on her.

She’s already in bed, curled up under the covers, eyes closed. I watch her for a moment, checking the steady rise and fall of her chest, wondering if she’s asleep.

Finally, I tear myself away and go to the kitchen to pour her a glass of water and grab the Advil. I take both back to her room and see that George has apparently decided this is where he’s sleeping tonight. He’s curled up next to her, his head resting on her hip.

Lucky fucking dog,I think, setting the water and pills on her bedside table for when she wakes up. I resist the urge to brush the hair out of her face, to let myself touch her hand, and instead reach to turn off the lamp.

“Wyatt,” she mumbles before my fingers find the switch. I jump, startled.

“I thought you fell asleep.”

“Almost,” she murmurs in a sleepy voice. “Need a favor.”

“Sure.”

“Get my phone, okay? In my purse. Need some music.”

“Backstreet Boys?” I tease, and immediately regret it as memories of her dancing in the club flood through me.

Her hair keeps me from seeing her face, but I’m pretty sure she smiles against the pillow. “No. Something relaxing.”

I find her purse discarded on the floor, next to her shoes and the sparkly dress. I swallow hard, trying not to think about what she might be wearing—or not wearing—under those covers.

“What music do you want?” I ask, taking the phone from her purse and pulling up the music app.

“There’s a playlist,” she mumbles. “It’s called Love Dream.”

My finger hesitates over the screen. “Love Dream?” I ask, surprised. Love Dream—Liebestraum in the original German—is probably my favorite piece of music, written by Franz Liszt. I think about the night we named George, how surprised I’d been when she was familiar with all my favorite composers.

“Yes please,” she murmurs.

I find the playlist and go to press play, but my finger freezes again as I take in what’s on the screen. Her Love Dream playlist is made up entirely of piano pieces. Piano pieces from the two classical albums I’ve released.

A strange feeling weighs down my chest. There are so many things I want to ask her. I finally settle on one question. “You listen to this a lot?”

“Mmhmm,” she murmurs sleepily. “All the time.” Then she sighs. “Only way I can sleep sometimes.”

There’s a burning feeling in the back of my throat. The number of questions I’m dying to ask doubles as I stare at her still form under the blankets. But she’s exhausted, and I figure I’ve been enough of an ass tonight—the last thing she needs is for me to pester her now. So I press play, set her phone on the nightstand, and leave the room to the soft sounds of my own piano playing.

Wyatt

“Score!” CeCe yells, and I jerk my head just in time to see the soccer ball sail past my knees, George running fast behind it.

“Damn it,” I mutter, retrieving the ball from the dog—who is trying his best to fit the whole thing into his mouth—then kicking it back.

My sister isn’t wearing her usual smug, goal-scoring grin. “It’s not as fun to score on you when you’re not even paying attention. What are you staring at?”

Without my permission, my eyes dart back to the patio. Back to Alex.

“I think he’s waiting to see if Uncle Reed pops a blood vessel,” Silas says, misreading the direction of my gaze. He nods towards the patio, where the parents and a few of our cousins are arguing. The three of us have spent most of this family lunch playing soccer and kicking the ball around for George to chase, but it’s hard not to notice the epic argument happening over by the grill.

I tilt my head, studying Reed. “No, but now that you mention it, his face is looking pretty red.”