Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
And why did I care?
His music sounded like it was based in American folk music. I wouldn’t say he was country, yet his voice and how he played, just him and his guitar, might draw that audience as well. But then some of his songs had an almost bluesy sound. Some stuff he did reminded me of older Bob Dylan music, with a more current vibe to it. Whatever you labeled his music, it felt older than he was, and…relevant.
He sang for an hour, then thanked everyone for listening. There was a tremble in his voice when he spoke that hadn’t been there when he was singing.
Again, his gaze found its way to me, and my pulse kicked up a notch, before he turned away.
As if in a hurry, Remington packed up his guitar, tugged a hoodie on, then practically ran from the stage. My body acted on impulse, like I had no control over my own limbs and it was simply natural to follow him. He was out the door before I could say anything. With quick hands, I grabbed my backpack and sped after him.
He wasn’t out front, and I couldn’t see him on the sidewalk in either direction I looked. Feeling like a bit of a stalker, I turned the corner, along the side of the coffeehouse.
It might have made me a stalker, but I exhaled a breath when I saw him by a…well, a really old car that looked like it had been wrecked. The side panel was dented in. I was surprised it ran. It was the kind of car my parents would be appalled by, but I didn’t give a shit.
He was sitting on the curb with his elbows on his knees and his hands in his hair.
“You’re really fucking good, man,” I said, and his eyes darted up to me, a flare of panic there. “Are you okay?” I asked, but he didn’t answer. He was rubbing his chest. Worry burst inside me, though I didn’t know what was wrong with him or what to do.
He turned away as I stepped closer, and I realized I could hear him breathing—loud, quick breaths that were way too fast.
“Should I call someone?”
He shook his head. “I just…just gotta settle down, is all. You can go.”
There was zero chance in hell of that happening, so I acted like an even bigger stalker and sat beside him. We were both quiet, and it weighed heavily on me, making me twitch and worry until I couldn’t hold words back anymore.
“Like I said, you’re, um…you’re really good. You wrote all those songs?” Maybe he wouldn’t want to talk, but I hoped it would help distract him.
Remington nodded. “I love writing. It’s like…I don’t know. A part of me. Plus, I can’t imagine singing someone else’s shit, ya know?”
“Yeah,” I said, even though I didn’t know. I was just thankful he replied.
“I mean, it’s what a lot of people do. To each their own, and hell, it’s not like I’m anyone, but yeah, I like to write my own stuff. If I make it big one day, I want it to be because I’m a good musician and songwriter, not one or the other.” His cheeks flushed a darker shade of red beneath the streetlight. Then his eyes widened as if he’d just realized what he’d said, but he was breathing easier now. Talking about music seemed to help. “Sorry. I’m sure you don’t care about all that,” he added.
“No, no. It’s cool. You’re passionate about it.” It was in the smoky quality of his voice. In the way the words had pulled him back from…whatever it was he’d been dealing with. There was something incredible about it, about his obvious love of music. About knowing who he was and what he was supposed to do.
“What are you passionate about?” he asked. The question nearly stopped my heart. No one had asked me that before. No one cared.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly.
He frowned as if he hadn’t expected that answer. I sure as shit hadn’t planned on saying it.
Before I could question it, before I could tell myself it was stupid and weird because I didn’t fucking know this guy, I asked, “When did you know?”
His frown deepened. “I’ve always known.” And I envied him. I wanted to feel something as completely as he seemed to.
My eyes darted down, almost embarrassed, and yep, that was a hole in his shoe.
“Do you go to the university?” I asked, not sure what else to say.
“Nah, school’s not really my thing.”
“Oh.” And…where did we go from there?
Remington broke the silence. “You do, though.” It wasn’t a question, but still I nodded.
“I’m a freshman, studying business. I’m from Havenwood. You probably haven’t heard of it. Are you from around here?”
“Not too far. Like an hour or so. There aren’t places for me to play at home, so I come to Charlottesville.”