All Your Firsts Without Me by LM Terry

Author:LM Terry [Terry, LM]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: PH, Format
Published: 2021-05-16T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINETEEN

April

Westin’s smile is blindingly bright as he enters the room at the nursing home. I’ve tucked myself in the back behind two older ladies, hoping he doesn’t spot me. I want to see how he interacts with them. And if I’m being honest, I want to hear him sing again. It’s a shame, he’s a brilliant songwriter yet doesn’t record any of his own songs. He should be the one up on stage singing them.

“Hey guys. I got some new material to try out.”

They all clap and shout their praise for his talents. It makes me smile when his cheeks turn pink at the compliments.

I was being honest with him when I told him I had listened to his songs a million times. I have. They’re amazing. His words soothe my troubled soul. They always have; I just didn’t know he was the one writing them.

It seems I can’t get Westin out of my mind and that makes me feel terrible. I should be grieving my dead husband, not lying on the floor daydreaming about another man while listening to his songs. But then I tell myself this is what David wanted. What he himself orchestrated.

A few light strums on the guitar pull me from my thoughts. I peek around the two women in front of me. I’m mesmerized by his hands. They are big, large enough I suppose to catch a football. I read about his tragedy online. He was a star running back. Everyone expected great things from him. That is, until the accident. A tear slides down my cheek as I think about him losing both of his parents that night. The article didn’t say much else.

It seems Westin likes his privacy. Me too. My publisher has been hounding me to do a few book signings, but my answer is always the same. I know my story might help someone, but it’s too much. If David was still alive, I might have been able to get through it, but without his glue, I can’t risk it.

Anyhow, back to his hands. God, they’re beautiful. I think they’re much better suited to playing the guitar than holding a football. He starts to sing, drawing my eyes up his frame. His eyes are closed as I watch his lips move. The music is a living, breathing thing inside of him.

A shiver runs up my body as if it’s connected to his voice.

I close my eyes. The darkness behind my lids offers the illusion that it’s just him and I. What I wouldn’t give for him to sing to me like this. As I listen to the words, I realize he is singing to me. When my eyes open, a pair of sea glass ones are staring back at me.

He drops his head, shyly, his dark hair falling over one of his eyes. When he glances up, the corner of his mouth curls into a grin. My own goes dry as he continues to sing to me. I shift on the cold metal chair.

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