Last To Know

18

I followed Maddox back to his car—trying my best to forget about basically throwing myself at him. My cheeks were already heating just thinking about it, and I willed the redness to disappear. I needed something—anything—to talk about.

"So, you said Karen and Paul lived here too?" It was the first question that popped into my head.

He nodded, unlocking the car and we both climbed inside.

"How'd they get away?" I winced at my choice of words. It sounded so harsh and callous. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that...I just meant that..." I rambled, unable to form a coherent sentence.

He reached over and squeezed my knee, leaving his hand there in the process. "It's okay. I know what you meant." He paused, appraising his next words. "Paul was able to get a promotion at work and they had to move to be closer—but they didn't move into the house they live in now, if that's what you're thinking." His hands tightened around the steering wheel.

He was obviously tense, and I worried that it came from telling me about his mom and dad—that maybe he'd told me before he was ready.

Maddox interrupted my thoughts with a statement of his own. "Your mom said your birthday is in a few weeks."

I winced. "What else did she tell you?"

He grinned at that—and even though his eyes were concealed behind the dark sunglasses I knew they were lit with laughter.

"She said you used to dress up and sing these little songs you made up."

My face reddened and I struggled to breathe. I could remember being five years old and dressing up in my sparkly red dress, black shoes, and getting into my mother's makeup—which wasn't much since she barely wore any—and singing a song about...cheese. Yes, cheese. Pretty much all the songs I made up related to my love of same random thing. Usually food. What could I say? I was always hungry.

"Hey, my songs were not little," I disagreed, "they were brilliant." The songs I wrote now were only for myself, though, and no one—not even Maddox—was ever going to see them.

"Do you still remember them?" He asked, an eyebrow rose in interest.

I squeaked. I felt like a cornered rabbit, and if we hadn't been in a moving vehicle I would've run away. "Maybe."

He laughed, trying to hide his smile behind his hand as he drove. "That's cute."

I wrinkled my nose with distaste. I wasn't sure I liked my boyfriend calling me cute. It seemed like a putdown, somehow—like something you'd call your little sister. Then again, I was probably being overly defensive due to my non-existent boyfriend experience. In the past I spent more time trying to push guys away than trying to figure them out.

"Mathias wants me to pick up some lunch to bring back with us, and then I was hoping I'd get to see you put those song writing skills to the test."

I blanched, shaking my head back and forth. "I'm hardly a skilled song writer," I defended. "Not like you," I added softly, remembering the day I played the song he wrote on the piano while he sang. The song had been beautiful—something I imagined someone much older than Maddox would've written. The songs I wrote paled in comparison.

"How would you know if you haven't let anyone hear them?" He countered.

Damn him. He had me there.

"What if I'm not good at it?" I asked in a small voice. I hated the thought of failing at something I loved so much.

He pulled into the parking lot of a local restaurant and turned off the car. He took his sunglasses off and leveled me with an indignant look. "How can any of us know if we're good at anything if we never at least try?"