After dinner we all share a ride back to the bus where Jay’s waiting and ready to go. The engine idles with a soft rumble and once again we’re back on the road. I should be tired. It was a long day, but after everyone turns in for the night I can’t turn off my mind. I try. Climbing into bed, I lie and stare at the top of my bunk for a good hour before I give up. Why can’t I sleep?

Grabbing my notebook and the stack of letters I hold dear, I slide quietly out of bed. Everyone else is passed out and I’m not looking to change that. I pad over to the kitchen table and slide into the corner of the bench seat. The light overhead brings enough illumination to write without straining my eyes.

Untying the ribbon that binds the letters together, I lay them out on the table and count them. Ten. Ten letters. Ten moments of my father’s life and love for my mother captured with pen and paper. Ten remembrances to prove I was created from love.

Would he have wanted me? Did my mother tell him? This I’ll never know, but I do know she went home to Destin to have me. Because she wanted me. That has to count for something. A shiver runs up my spine and goosebumps rake up my arms as my heart pangs. I never got to know the warmth of my mother’s embrace. I was only days old when she passed. At least she held me before she died. I try to find peace in that knowledge, but it’s never enough. Because I still long for her touch, wish I could remember her face, and want to be loved.

Biting back a sniffle, I reach for my favorite letter of the bunch and pull it out to re-read the romantic note. I don’t need to—the words are memorized from how often I’ve read them, but there’s something about my father’s handwriting that connects me to the man I never knew.

He really loved her.

When I get to the end of the letter my heart blooms with love; the words mean even more now that they’re inked on my skin.

Wherever I wander, you’re always with me.

Moisture pools in my eyes and leaks down the sides of my face, but I don’t wipe the tears away. Words flood my mind in sync with the feelings that churn inside. I whip open my notebook, turning to a blank lined page, and drop everything into those spaces. Hurt. Longing. Need. Love. Everything rushes from my mind in tangents and short phrases.

“Hey, you.”

I gasp and jump at Leighton’s voice, my heart leaping in my chest. “You scared me!” I whisper and slam my notebook shut.

His gaze drops to the mess I’ve made on the table.

Hastily, I gather the letters and shove them into a pile at my side. I’m not ready to share these, with him or anyone. “Can’t sleep.” I feel the need to explain why I’m up at this hour.

He nods, his stare cautious and careful as if he might spook me more than he already has. “Mind if I join you?”

I glance at the table and shrug. “Sure.”

He could take any seat, but he slides into the bench, close enough that his knee grazes mine. “So, what’s in the notebook?” He raises his eyebrows with his stare.

I lift mine right back. “What do you think’s inside?”

“Espionage.” He levels me with a playful glare. “It’s always the most unassuming characters who work for the government.”

“Yep. You caught me.” I give in to a soft laugh. “I’m jotting down all your dirty secrets for our national security.”

“Really?” He cocks his head as if he’s actually concerned.

I’ve never shared this with anyone, but I realize I want to tell Leighton about my writing. Maybe it’s the safety of a late night confession but I’d like to believe I’m embracing the woman I want to become. I’m ready to be braver, bolder. “I write things. Poems? Songs? I don’t really know. The words just come to me.” I trace the edges of my notebook, unable to meet his gaze.

I’m a work in progress with the brave thing.

“Can I see?”

Swallowing my fear, I slide the notebook into his hands.

My silly romantic ramblings are something I’ve done for years, but I didn’t write them for anyone, or anything. Like everything I’ve shared with Leighton, it’s equal parts terrifying and exhilarating to hand over my notebook. His fingers don’t open the pages until I murmur my consent. “Okay.”

He reads. And reads. And reads.

With each flip of another page my anxiety grows. Does he like them? Think I’m an utter fool? Lord, I never should have shown him. I clear my throat, unable to stand the silence a moment longer. “They aren’t really—”

“Shh.” He holds up a finger, his gaze trained with laser focus on the paper.

Did he really shh me? He shh’d me! Where in the ever lovin’ world does he think that’s an acceptable response? I cross my arms over my chest.

His gaze finally lifts. I try to discern his expression but come up empty. He sets the notebook in the space between us. “Where did you learn to write?”

I glance to the front of the bus and then back to him. Is this a trick question? “Elementary school.”

He rolls his eyes and lets loose a chuckle. “Smart ass.”

“What do you mean?”

“These lyrics.” He points at the notebook. “At least, I read them as lyrics. They’re emotive. Deep. Full of passion.”

“Yeah? They’re not crap?” This time I hold his gaze and brace myself for the other shoe to drop.

“You’re serious? You have no clue?” He raises his voice and shakes his head. “They’re fucking amazing. Like, I want to wake up the rest of the band right now so we can write a song with you.”

“You’re only saying that because . . .” My voice trails off, not exactly sure how to finish that thought. Because he doesn’t want to hurt my feelings? Because he’s only being kind?

“Because we got tattoos together?” he offers with a grin.

“Leighton.” I mean to chastise but his name leaves my lips full of longing. Ugh. I shake my head. “You have to be nice, so I don’t know whether I believe you.” I drop my gaze to the table.

“Opal.” He reaches forward, lifting my chin so I look him in the eyes. “I’m very serious about music.”

“You really think they’re songworthy?” The hope in my voice begs for affirmation. I hate that I need it, but I do.

“I know they are.” He leans forward and the space between us narrows. His conviction bleeds past my insecurities and seeps confidence into my dreams. Could I really write a song?

More pressing, though . . . Is he about to kiss me?

His gaze doesn’t waver but for a momentary dip to my lips. They’re dry under his stare and I press them together, which draws his attention again. He leans closer, a fraction of an inch, but it’s enough that his scent fills my nostrils. He’s fresh and clean, with a little mixture of something that reminds me of the ocean.

My lashes flutter, heavy with lust and desire. I want Leighton to kiss me. It’s not the first time I’ve imagined it, but after spending the day together, this moment seems fated. Romantic. Perfect.

“Uh, I–I should go to bed.” His brisk words jolt me from the anticipation.

“Oh, okay.” I straighten my spine. Hurt crushes the longing, and in its place I’m flooded with reminders of all the ways I’m lacking. I’m not smart enough. I’m not beautiful. I don’t stand out. I give and give and get nothing in return. Leighton doesn’t want to kiss me. Why would he?

“I—” He opens his mouth like he wants to say more, but instead his gaze finds mine. The second he does he scoots out of the bench seat. “Yeah, okay.”

Yeah, okay? What the heck does that mean? I expected his lips on mine. Not a gruff good night. My chest tightens with rejection; one more in a lifetime of them. I swallow down the pain and reach for my precious letters, the only consolation I find.

“Hey, Opal?”

I lift my eyes to his. “Yeah?”

“I meant what I said. Your lyrics, they’re really good. I want to write a song with you.” His fingers tap at his side, a staccato beat that increases by the second. His eyes are wide and full of an emotion I can’t name because I don’t know him well enough. “If that’s okay.”

He’s asking permission and this isn’t about some unrequited crush. He wants to write a song, with me. How many nights this past year have I wondered if I had it in me? I didn’t grow up with the influence that Lexi had, but we share the same blood. Is there a tiny part of my father’s legacy inside? When I push my romantic feelings for Leighton aside, I realize there’s nothing I’d like more than to take him up on his offer. “I’d really like that.”

“Tomorrow, then.” He stops tapping and a grin kicks up the corners of his lips. “Get some sleep if you can.”

“I’ll turn in soon.” I nod, unable to stay mad when he smiles at me that way. After all, what am I upset about? Him not wanting to kiss me. That’s not his fault.

“Good night.” He takes another step backward, that sexy smile still in place. “Sweet dreams.”

My heart pitter patters inside my chest. Heat rushes to my cheeks and my body tingles with awareness. If he holds my stare much longer my dreams will be anything but sweet. “’Night,” I manage to whisper.

He turns, strides the rest of the way across the bus, and pulls himself up into his bed. With everyone else asleep I don’t need to hide my attraction, and stare unabashedly at his backside. He may not want me and that’s probably better. Safer. Less complicated.

Unfortunately, I can’t turn off my feelings so easily. Gathering my notebook and letters, I slide out of the seat and kill the light. Just because Leighton doesn’t return my feelings doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. Or write songs together. And if I’m being honest, maybe I hold a tiny fraction of hope he’ll grow to see me as more. It’s not entirely impossible. The time we spend together feels special. I swear he feels it, too.