After his meteoric rise to superstardom, Jim O'Brien is no longer a small-town boy who plays in bars and dreams of success. His handsome face is plastered on the covers of celebrity gossip magazines, and his voice alone is enough to make girls swoon...
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The city sprawled beneath me, twinkling with myriads of lights. A gust of wind ruffled my hair, and a lone raindrop landed on my forehead.
I wrapped my jacket around me and rushed back to my car. Jim wasn't at his favorite spot, but since I didn't have to leave the confines of the city to check it out first, I drove here from the bookstore.
As soon as my car's engine purred to life, I connected my phone to the car and went on to listen to my voicemails.
Jim left the first one after midnight.
"I know I should give you space. I just… I don't want to. I'm scared if I leave you alone for too long, there would be more hurt and more wrong assumptions. When can we talk?"
I swallowed hard, gluing my gaze to the narrow road ahead of me.
"You deserve more than a phone apology. It's okay if you're not ready to listen to me just yet, but please, let's set the date. Let's schedule a conversation."
My fingers wrapped around the leather of the steering wheel. The last message from Jim resounded in the vehicle.
"Nothing was a lie — my feelings toward you weren't. Please, text me. Or call me. I'll be happy with whatever; just don't give up on us yet."
I blew out a shaky breath and turned the radio on to distract myself from the fear of driving God knows where and not finding Jim.
Heavy rain droplets hit the windshield. I put the wipers on high when I drove onto the highway.
As if fate decided to laugh at me, the first song that poured from my car's speakers was Jim's.
How could I be so clueless? His music tattoos and the books about renowned guitarists in his library should have made me suspicious. Even his notes on the margins of my book suggested he had a way with words. Those were the comments of someone who wrote things. The truth had been under my nose the whole time.
I relaxed my stiff posture and allowed the music to envelop me. The guy I loved wrote the song, and I had no clue. He kept me in the dark, refusing to let me see the real him. It was by far one of the things that hurt me the most.
More songs of Rebellious Hearts played during my journey. I liked them and found myself humming the chorus, enjoying listening to Jim's deep voice despite the hurt I felt.
When I finally got to the old man's house, it was past ten p.m. The rain was still falling from the pitch-black sky. I got out of the vehicle and pulled the hood of my jacket over my head as I dashed to the two-story construction looming ahead of me.
My clammy hand wrapped around the doorknob. Relief washed over me when the door gave in.
"Jim?" I called, stepping inside, and stilled, listening in.
