Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“So, you chose the clarinet?” Mom asked Ashley.
“Yep! I wanted the guitar, but Mrs. Caster said they don’t have guitars in band, which doesn’t make any sense.” Ashley shook her head as we rounded the end of the table.
“Well, I know Nixon plays guitar very well,” Mom whispered conspiratorially, tossing a wink at Nixon.
Ashley’s head whipped in our direction. “Yeah? Can you teach me to play?” Her eyes lit up.
Nixon’s plate hit the floor and shattered.
Every head swung his way.
I glanced briefly at the mess, but it was the horrified look on his face that kept my attention. “Hey, it’s okay. We’ll clean it up.”
My family jumped into action, but Nixon didn’t move. His body was here, but he wasn’t—just like that time in the diner.
“Nixon?” I touched his arm.
He startled, then noticed the mess and dropped down to pick it up. “I’m so sorry.” He started to brush the broken shards of pottery into his hand.
“No!” I grasped his wrists. “Your hands.”
He slowly brought his gaze to mine, and the utter devastation there would have knocked me to the ground if I wasn’t already on it. He looked so lost that my heart physically hurt for him.
“Just give me a second,” I said softly, rising to my feet.
He followed my lead, and my father swept in with the broom.
“Dad, I can—”
“I’ve got it,” Dad assured me.
“Don’t you worry about a thing.” Mom tsked and joined in on the cleanup.
“I can’t be here,” Nixon whispered.
“Okay.” I had no idea what the hell was going on inside his head, but this was worse than when he’d demanded we leave the San Francisco show. That had been anxiety. This was blatant desperation.
“I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t. I can’t.” He shook his head and pulled his wrists from my grip, striding for the front door.
“Mom, Dad, I’m sorry.” I dropped to help.
“We’re fine.” Mom stopped me, giving my arm a compassionate squeeze. “Go with him.”
I scrambled to my feet and took off after Nixon, grabbing our jackets from the hooks in the entryway and flying out the door.
He stood next to the car, the keys in his hand, but he wasn’t getting in.
“Want me to drive?” I asked as I approached.
He nodded, thrusting the keys in my direction. I took them, unlocked the doors, then threw our jackets in the back as I climbed in, shivering against the cold. The engine roared to life, and Nixon slid into the passenger seat, buckling in one smooth motion.
His motor skills are fine.
“Do you want to tell me what happened in there?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level.
“I want you to drive.” He stared straight forward.
At least we were up to five words.
“Nixon…”
“We can go straight to the bar, or you can take us home. Either way, please start driving.” His hands curled into fists in his lap.
“Home it is,” I muttered, putting the car into reverse.
He was quiet the entire ride home, then stalked silently into the house after I parked in the garage.
“Do you want me to call someone?” I asked, following him into the room where he kept his guitars.
“Like who?” he challenged, his head swinging left, then right as he looked over the instruments.
“I don’t know. Jonas? Quinn? Something happened back there, and if you won’t talk to me about it, then maybe—”
The glare he sent my direction was harsh enough to back me up a step. “I’ll what? Talk to either of them?”
“That was the idea, yes.”
“I know you mean well, Zoe, but get out.” He picked up the first guitar, and my stomach turned over at the possibilities of his next move.
“Nixon, don’t—”
“Go.” He put it into its case, then stood it against the wall.
I backed out of the room slowly as he packed up the next guitar and stood it next to its sister. I heaved a sigh of relief. He wasn’t going on some destructive rant.
The wall was hard against my back as I slid down the surface, parking my ass right outside that door. Each moment that passed without a shatter or a bang, I breathed a little easier.
Until he carried two of them out ten minutes later and marched for the front door.
“Are we leaving?” I asked, hurrying after him.
“Nope. But the guitars are.”
I stood at the door and watched Nixon carry the guitars he loved more than anything else down the long, winding driveway and out to the rural highway. Every step he took broke something inside me. I was starting to think Nixon couldn’t be won all at once. If I wanted him, I’d have to fight for every piece he’d give me, then go to war for the ones he wouldn’t.
I raced to the one I couldn’t bear to see him lose and stashed it away, returning to the door in time to see him come back empty-handed, then start all over again until every electric guitar he’d brought to Colorado lay abandoned on the side of the road.