Page 151 of Bend

Music doesn’t ask me to explain myself before it lets me feel something.

I try the first verse again, change a word halfway through, immediately hate it, then scratch it out hard enough that the pen nearly tears the page.

“Fucking brilliant.”

The chorus is worse.

I know what I want it to feel like. I just can’t get the words to stop sounding like I’m trying too hard.

I play it again, softer this time.

Then something finally clicks.

“Leave a light on if I’m late coming home…”

My fingers still against the strings.

Okay.

That doesn’t completely suck.

I grab the pen and write it down before I can overthink it to death.

Then I start again, voice low enough that I’m barely giving the words any room to exist.

“Leave a light on if I’m late coming home,

I’ve been lost long enough to know…”

The next line refuses to show up.

I let the chord ring out while I stare at the page.

Nothing.

“Helpful.”

“Do you always insult your songs when they don’t cooperate?”

I nearly launch the guitar across the fucking room.

My head snaps toward the doorway.

Wolfe is leaning against the frame in gray sweatpants and a dark T-shirt, hair messy and mouth already twitching like scaring ten years off my life is somehow entertaining.

I press a hand to my chest.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Little bit.”

I narrow my eyes. “Were you just fucking lurking?”

“Listening.”