Will We Talk?

37- Mixed

The car ride home was rather quiet. It was a nice quiet, though. Sam's voice sang along to every Christmas song that played and I swayed along with the lyrics, weary of the road ahead. The dark roads of North Shields were not ideal right now, but I really didn't want to leave my car yet, instead I made a U-turn and headed off in the northern direction.

"Babe, this isn't the way to the apartment." Sam explained as though I actually didn't clock what I was doing.

"No shit, Sherlock." I chuckled, turning the radio down a little.

From the corner of my eye, I could see him visibly fighting with his thoughts, but not having the capability to cover it up. His hands sat in a ball in his lap, fingers intertwined with one another.

"Where you tekin is then?" he suddenly smiled, placing a hand on my thigh.

"Dunno... I don't fancy going home quite yet. Maybe Druridge Bay? Amble? Cresswell? Where do you fancy?" I questioned, giving him some say in where we go.

"Don't you think its a bit late for that?" he mumbled, as though he didn't want me to hear him.

"Fair." I reassured his nerves, "How about I just drive around for a while?" I asked.

"Sure. Only if we can stop off for a drink somewhere, I'm chokin'." he complained, making me laugh at his childish wishes.

*****

"Home at last." Sam sighed, dropping his body limply on the settee, resulting in it sliding back slightly.

"Mhm." I hummed in response, nesting myself into Sam's side as his arm curled around my shoulders, "You had a good Christmas?"

"Mint, aye. Better now that you're with is though." he admitted.

"You're so cheesy and I love you for it." I cringed, kissing his cheek.

"I've got one last surprise for you." he sat up suddenly, "Come with me." he instructed, holding his hand out for me to grab, which I did.

I was confused. Another surprise? Did he not realise how much he'd gotten me already? To be completely honest, I felt a bit spoilt, and it made me really nervous- like I didn't want what he was about to show me. But then that would make me seem ungrateful, which is something I most certainly am not.

My vision was blocked by his hands over my eyes as he guided me into a certain position, "You ready?" he exclaimed.

"Not really!" I answered back, the excitement in my voice clearly being sarcastic.

His hands left the path of my eyesight and before me lay a guitar on the bed.

"That's pretty, did your mam get you that one?" I asked, observing the acoustic guitar closer.

"That's not mine." he replied with a smug look that settled on his face.

"Sam!" I squealed, "You didn't."

That's my guitar. The guitar that I'd been practically begging Sam to teach me to play and he'd went out of his way to get me one. If I learnt how to play guitar, I could also combine that with the little knowledge I have with my keyboard at mam's and finally put my song writing to the test.

I'd been writing since I was young- it comes with having a large and bold imagination- and I'd write stories based on whatever I was thinking. That then changed when I went into secondary school, when I chose music as a GCSE, and I started releasing my feelings via song. Somewhere in the house was my writing book from Year 9 and onwards, but the cringe in there is too much to comprehend now.