Chapter 18: I See What's Going On Here

Kelly

It took three knocks to bring Crash's mother out of her room, cursing, her hair stringy and twisted into a knot. She didn't come to the door but stopped at the counter across from it to pick up her cigarettes.

"Morning?" she said in a gravel voice that reminded me of Crash. "Whattaya need?" Her lighter flicked, sparked, as she pulled her hand around the flame to light a cigarette.

"I was just looking for Crash. I got an afternoon off."

She blew a plume of smoke toward the ceiling, squinting into the sunlight from the door. She rubbed her forehead. "I think he's recording, or something? I don't know."

They'd gotten the studio time? He was supposed to tell me. The knot in my stomach became a brick. "Oh. Okay. I guess I'll text him. Thanks."

She waved a hand vaguely in my direction and shuffled deeper into the house.

I pulled my phone out, excitement battling with hurt. Why wouldn't he have told me? Why didn't he answer my texts when he got up? I'd assumed he was still asleep.

I typed out another message.

Your mom says you're recording.

Is she right? I hope it goes really well.

Call me when you're done.

I spent the drive home trying to figure out how to feel about it all.

I hated their increasing success for stealing all his time, but I loved it for making his dreams come true.

I hated Tommy for never even thinking about how much I'd miss him because he was always with Crash, and I loved him for being there for Crash through it all.

It was awful. And wonderful.

Crash didn't answer until two in the morning. He texted:

Sorry baby. Things are crazy.

Someone canceled studio time

and we got called in. The single

is done! Amber says we'll get

the advance soon.

I was so happy for him when I woke up and read it.

I also cried in the shower.

Days passed into weeks, and I saw Crash less and less. The texts got fewer, and phone calls virtually stopped. When we did talk he was buzzing, but it was always about the music.

I hated myself for not demanding that he make time to see me. But I was afraid of seeing their success too.

Then, after a week of being down to a single text a day, I got a call at eight in the morning—when Crash was usually dead asleep.

"Babe," he said, sounding hungover, or desperately tired. "I'm taking you to lunch today."

There was a quietness in Crash's voice that made me go cold. "I have work this afternoon."

"That's okay. We'll go early. I'll get you back in time."

He wouldn't take no for an answer. So I said I'd make sandwiches if he'd drive me out to the reservoir. I told Dan I had to go to work early, and he didn't question it, for once. Like it was meant to be. Which sucked. But at least if Crash was dumping me I wouldn't have to deal with it in public.

A few minutes before twelve I drove to the parking lot of work and parked my car under the trees at the back. Crash was already there.

"Hey," he said, elbow over the window of his truck. But his eyes were puffy from lack of sleep, and he'd lost weight. He looked pale and sunken. And gorgeous. I drank in the sight of him.

"Hey." I forced myself to walk around the truck and into the passenger seat.

When I got in, he didn't kiss me. Just took my hand. His knee kept bouncing.

Nervous. He's nervous. Because he's breaking up with me.

I almost leaped out of the car at the next red light.

We barely spoke the entire drive. At some point, Crash flipped on the radio to fill the silence. I leaned on the window and waited it out.

He took the back road, to the side road, to the dirt road, until eventually, we pulled up at the edge of the reservoir in our spot, where the trees trailed leaves only a few feet off the ground, and the dank water looked almost blue.

Crash turned the truck so the bed faced the water, then killed the engine. He smiled. "Ready?" Without waiting for my answer, he turned the radio up (music to break my heart by) and opened the little window in the back of the cab before getting out and walking to the bed of the truck, making the entire thing bounce as he levered himself up into it.

I was slower. He offered me a hand when I reached the tailgate. I took it, memorizing the feel of his warm, dry fingers twined with mine. The easy strength that pulled me off my feet and into the bed of the truck—right up against his chest.

I almost rested my forehead on his collarbone—it always fit there so perfectly—but I

knew I'd cry if I did, so as soon as I'd found my balance, I stepped out of his arms and walked to the back of the bed, to the two little, legless chairs strapped under the sliding window.

Our seats. Our spot. His truck. My heart.

In a second I'd sit down. Then he'd sit next to me—always on the same side. I'd spent hours, imagining the day these would be our sides of the bed.

The thought broke something open inside me and I folded my arms, unable to bring myself to sit.

A flock of geese paddled on the water. I watched them instead of Crash as he examined me, worry lines appearing on his forehead.

"Babe, are you okay?"

I dropped my head, cursing myself as the tears welled.

Crash took the two steps to my side too quickly. The entire truck lurched up and down. I windmilled, trying to keep my balance on the uneven truck bed floor. He grabbed me and pulled me into his chest again, searching my face, his hesitation gone like it was never there.

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