Holding My Breath [Wattys 2016]

6 ~ R u s t y

Present Day ~ May 6, 2011

I nod in thanks to a mother who hands her daughter a five to toss into my guitar case. She smiles at me and tugs her child away to get on with their day.

I notice a few familiar faces. Mine still doesn't seem to be familiar to them, so at least I have that.

A group of teenagers walks by, laughing. A spunky brunette girl chirps something I can't quite make out and they all laugh. All but one. He cracks a smile, moving a hand through his hair. I haven't seen any of them around here yet.

Then his eyes flick toward the sound of the music. To me.

I look away when I realize I've played the chorus once too many times, but my audience doesn't seem to notice. The group stampedes into the diner, a few more of them noticing me with their smiles, but I try to ignore them. The brunette girl hangs back for a moment to watch before following her friends inside. They look about my age... I need to keep a low profile for the next few months or so. I doubt that'll happen if I attract their attention.

So I shake myself out of it, plastering a smile back onto my lips.

I see a dark-haired man standing at the back of the crowd and my stomach leaps into my throat. The music dies out in my ears, but my fingers keep strumming. Then he turns a little and I can see his face clearer.

It's not him. Calm down.

An old man tosses a dollar into my case and I nod. I stop humming when the song comes to an end and begin to tune my acoustic while I decide what to play next.

"What's a young girl like you doin' playin' here?" The old man digs through his pocket and bleeds out another dollar.

I just smile and give him the same excuse I give to anyone who asks. "Just taking a break I guess." The lies just roll off my tongue like second nature.

The man frowns at my cryptic remark, but I just set my fingers into another chord and begin to pick out a new song, humming.

After a while the heat has me panting and my clothes are starting to stick to my skin. The same people are still standing around me, but they start to scatter again when my music slows to a stop.

I walk around to the gas station that subsides the diner, a place where I hid yesterday too, lugging my case along with me.

By the fill up is a red truck, the bed open and empty. It's conveniently out of sight from the gas station windows, where the owner of the truck runs the counter. I swing my case up and climb in after it. I have a perfect view of everything around me from here.

Otherwise, I'd probably sit on the ground.

I lean against the side and practice some of the harder chords and picking patterns that I don't know very well. It's relaxing, the music that washes off the strings and into the wind. I like it, not because I'm the one playing it but because of the sound that the strings make. Because of the looseness in my shoulders that comes from the familiar movement of my hands.

"Nice music, Rusty." The voice makes me jump a little, the boy from the crowd watching and walking towards me. The one who watched me. It takes me a moment to notice that he named me after the truck. "You write that?"

I ignore his question, glancing away for a second. People can still see us from the street. He's not going to get away with anything... I sit up slowly, my senses on red alert anyway.

It takes me a moment to find my voice. I haven't spoken as me in a long time.

"Nice nickname... did you get it from my hair or the truck?"

He smiles. "The truck. But it works even better with the red hair."

"Why do you want to know, Blue?" I refer to his shirt as he stops near the edge of the truck.

He creases his eyebrows. The boy looks different up close. He's too tall to be able to know what to do with his arms and legs. So he has his hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans. His eyes are darker, more intimidating, but the expression on his face doesn't make him look mean. A lopsided grin makes me look away.

"Just curious is all. Haven't seen you around here before. We don't get many visitors."

"So you're a stalker?" I shift the guitar off my lap and into the case, clasping the latch closed. I turn to him, biting my lip. I kind of want to smile... in all of the towns I've stayed in, nobody actually tried to welcome me. They always wanted something. Maybe he does, too.

He gives me a short laugh, stepping aside so I can get down. To his credit, his cheekiness was only thrown off for a second from my accusation. "Not really."

It takes me a minute to realize he's waiting for me to say something.

"Fine," I sigh, swinging my legs over the side of the trunk and hopping off. "Yes. I wrote that. And I've been here before. "

"Then why don't you play it?" He asks as he leans against the truck.

"It's not done," I lie. He buys it.

"And you're not from around here?" he tries again. He's just trying to be nice, I think.

My gut twists. I clear my throat and look at the ground. "I haven't seen you around here either," I say quietly. It takes everything in me not to bolt, to try and be breezy and cool and not draw attention to myself.

I glance up to see a slight smirk on his face, amusement in the stranger's eyes. "I live here."

"Oh," I mumble, turning away from him. This is stupid. I shouldn't be talking to some guy at a gas station. It has sketchy written all over it.

I start to walk back toward the diner, leaving him behind. The boy quickly matches my pace, following me.

"So are you gonna to stick around?" He asks as I try not to look up at him.

"And you say you aren't a stalker." I keep walking. He keeps following.

"I just think I've seen you before." My heart skips a beat. Just one, but I hide it.

I open my mouth to say something, then shut it again.

I turn. I keep walking.

"Do you have a name?" He asks, giving up and stopping. I keep going, casting a look over my shoulder at the boy. Now it's my turn to smirk.

"Yeah, I do."

I keep walking. I don't look back.