A Week of Mondays (30 page)

For this?

No.

Never.

I forced myself to nod.

He pressed Play. A fast and peppy drum line blasted into my ears. It was so loud but I didn't want to insult him by pulling the headphones away or asking him to lower the volume so I just focused on the music and tried to move my head to the beat.

He propped his knee up on the bed so he could turn his body toward me. So that he could watch me. The guitars came in. Eager and electric, followed by the full band. I tried to concentrate, but it was difficult with Tristan sitting there so close to me. All I could see were his hands on the bed, inches from my leg, his eyes intense and anticipating, studying my face for a hint of emotion.

The music cut out and then it was just a simple drumbeat, single keyboard chords, and Tristan's voice.

Oh holy cannoli, it was sexy.

Deep and throaty with just the right amount of angst.

“She.

She laughs in riddles I can't understand.

She.

She talks in music I can't live without.”

Only one word flitted through my head.

Wow.

I don't know if it was the lyrics, the edgy guitar riffs that played between stanzas, or the way Tristan bowed his head and looked up at me from under the veil of his lashes as I listened, but it was the most amazing song I'd ever heard.

His lips started to move. I couldn't hear what he was saying because the music was turned up too loud. I reached for the headphones, pulling them off my head, but he stopped me. His hands landed atop mine, the warmth of his soft skin sinking in.

“Don't take them off.”

He gingerly guided my hands until the headphones were securely back in place.

He glanced around and then suddenly he was scrambling over to his desk and grabbing a notebook and a pen. He scribbled something on a blank page and then sat down next to me and held it up.

Do you like it?

I nodded vigorously. “It's incredible!” I yelled over the music, before realizing I didn't have to shout. “Sorry,” I whispered.

He bent his head over the notebook and began scribbling again.

Keep listening.

I closed my eyes, letting the song pour into me. Tristan was right. It wasn't noise. It was beautiful. Soulful and gritty. Hard and soft at the same time. The music started to ramp up. I felt every instrument in every part of my body. I held my breath in anticipation of Tristan's voice again.

“Tell me where to go.

To know the things you know.

Kiss me in the street.

Where everyone can see.”

When I opened my eyes, Tristan had scrawled another message on a blank page of the notebook and was holding it in front of his chest.

You look adorable in my headphones.

“Adorable?” I asked, pretending to be offended. I had to fight off the silly grin that threatened to blow my cover.

Tristan flipped the notebook back over, his hand moving furiously. A moment later, he revealed his amendment to the message.

You look
adorable
sexy in my headphones.

I broke out in laughter. Tristan held a finger to his lips and pointed to his phone.

I schooled my expression into one of quiet contemplation. A serious record executive listening to a serious song.

No one had ever called me sexy before. No one had ever called me
anything
before.

He flipped to a blank page and scrawled out another question.

Are you a fan yet?

A fan? I was already brainstorming the Instagram handle for my fan
club
.

The chorus started and I attempted to focus back on the lyrics of the song, but Tristan's body next to me was so distracting. It felt like he was inching closer with every drumbeat, even though I knew he hadn't moved.

“Inside the mind of the girl,

Is the reason we lose sleep.

A map through the best dreams.

The secret to everything.

Inside the mind of the girl,

Time passes in light-years

Ships sink in the atmosphere

But someday I'll get there.

Someday I'll get there.”

The chorus eased to an end and the second verse started. Tristan lowered his head to write something. I leaned forward to try to read it, but he tilted the notebook toward his chest. So I focused on the lyrics of the second verse instead, my stomach knotting tighter and tighter the closer I got to that mind-numbing chorus again.

Inside my headphones, Tristan sang,

“Tell me where to go,”

Across from me, Tristan turned his notebook around.

Tell me where to go …

Inside my headphones, Tristan sang,

“To know the things you know.”

Across from me, Tristan turned the page.

To know the things you know.

My heart exploded, fire shooting through my veins and taking me over. Tristan started scribbling again. The music picked up. A big, powerful ramp-up to the second chorus.

A ramp-up I already knew the words to.

Lyrics I already knew by heart.

“Kiss me in the street.”

Tristan turned his notebook around in slow motion.

Kiss me in the street.

I looked up. His gaze was hot. Focused. Intense.

“We're not in the street,” I told him.

It was the worst thing to say. It was the best thing to say.

He turned the notebook around, his hand moving fast and furious over the page.

Kiss me anyway.

I let out a shaky breath. “I thought a gentleman always asks.”

He flipped the notebook around and added one curvy line.

Kiss me anyway?

I laughed aloud, but the sound was cut off as his hands cupped the sides of my face. As he pulled me to him. As his lips covered mine.

The chorus blasted into my ears, drowning me in his voice, his scent, his mouth. The song lifted to a crescendo as the melody raced toward the bridge.

Suddenly, Tristan was everywhere.

He was turned up so loud.

He was everything I heard. Everything I tasted. Everything I felt.

That kiss might have lasted a few seconds or it might have lasted days. I'll never be able to tell you which one, because I lost myself in it. I lost my own rhythm in his drumbeat. I lost my own words in the soulful lyrics he was belting into my ear. I was a wandering melody with no direction. No goal. No reason. Ready to be pulled into his.

If given the chance, I don't think I would have ever stopped kissing Tristan. But eventually he pulled away, leaving both of us breathless and besieged.

That's when I first heard the silence and realized there was no longer any sound coming through the headphones. The song had ended and I had no idea how long ago that was. I had been listening to empty static but it still felt like music.

He pulled the headphones off and a rush of cool air brushed against my ears.

“I never said yes,” I whispered to him as he rested his forehead against mine.

He smiled into me. “I took a leap of faith.”

 

THE FIFTH MONDAY

 

Here I Go Again

7:04 a.m.

Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!

No. It's too early. I need to sleep in. I've had almost a week of Mondays. I deserve a weekend already. I deserve some rest.

Besides, who's texting me this early? Owen? He needs to chill.

Groggy and blurry-eyed, I grab for my phone, knocking over a cup of water on my nightstand, and blink against the light of the screen. I bolt upright when I see Tristan's name on the screen.

Tristan's texting me?

About what?

Our romantic evening last night? How hot I looked on stage next to him? How happy he is that we're together?

Obviously, those are the only three options.

Obviously …

Tristan: I can't stop thinking about last night.

No. It's not possible. It can't be. It's not …

Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!

Tristan: Let's talk today.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

I quickly tap over to the calendar app and my bedroom shrinks down to the size of a tuna can.

Monday, September 26.

Monday.

Monday.

MONDAY!

How in the name of everything that is holy can it still be
Monday
?

I fixed the problem. I righted the wrong. I did exactly what I said I would do when I made that moronic, ill-fated wish to the universe and asked for another chance. It can't still be Monday.

I shake my phone, willing it to change.

Wake up, phone! Get with the program! It's Tuesday, you piece of crap!

The calendar doesn't change.

“What the hell do you know!?” I scream, and violently chuck the phone across the room. It crashes against my mirror, shattering both. Glass and broken phone parts rain down to the carpet.

A moment later Hadley bursts through the door, eyeing the mess and gasping. “What happened?”

“Get out!” I yell at her. “Just get OUT!”

Her injured expression sends a shot of guilt into my chest as she quietly ducks out, looking like a dismissed Disney character.

Whatever. I don't care. Let her be hurt. Let my mirror shatter. It'll all be reset tomorrow, because obviously nothing I do matters anymore.

Nothing.

I could set fire to the house, run naked through the school hallways, assassinate the mayor, and tomorrow no one will even remember. I'll just wake up right here in this bed, with those stupid text messages.

Over and over again.

I'm trapped in a nightmare. I'm going to live the rest of my life in this awful, awful day.

Why couldn't it have been a Saturday? Or a Sunday?

Why couldn't it have been my birthday or Christmas or the day Tristan and I had our first kiss? I would have been perfectly fine reliving
that
day over and over again. But this one?

The one where Tristan hates me?

Where he's on the precipice of ending everything we had?

Not to mention the election speech and the rain and the school pictures and the softball tryouts and the ticket and …

Gah!

I can't do it. I can't relive it all over again. I can't keep trying to make things right with Tristan only to have my efforts erased the next morning. It's like running on a treadmill. You run and run and run, but in the end you've gone nowhere. What's the flipping point?

I lie in bed, resolved not to move. I won't go to school. No one can make me. It's not like I'll get an absentee mark on my permanent record. I
have
no permanent record anymore!

I don't know how long I lie there, because my phone with my only clock on it is smashed in the corner, but eventually my dad knocks on the door and enters.

“Owen is on the landline for you. He said he's been calling your phone but it goes straight to voice mail. Are you sick?”

“No. Go away.”

My father doesn't move. I guess that line only works on little sisters. “I'm not going to school,” I vow.

“If you're not sick, then you're going to school. Plus, you have softball tryouts today.”

I groan and roll over, facing the wall. “What's the point? I'll just try out tomorrow.”

“The email your coach sent said it was a one-day tryout. No makeups. Today is your only chance, Ellie.”

I press my face into the pillow and let out a scream.

When I look up again, my father is sitting on the edge of my bed. “Is this about Tristan? Your sister told me that you two had a fight last night.”

Dang it, Hadley!

I can feel the tears welling up but I refuse to cry in front of my dad. Especially about a boy.

“No,” I mumble, but it sounds about as convincing as a confession of love on a reality show.

My father lets out a sigh. “Well, I'm sorry if you're having … boy trouble, but that's no reason to miss school. Junior year is incredibly important when it comes to colleges, and you can't let a little crush ruin your chances at a good future.”

I growl and push the covers off me. “It's not a little crush, Dad. May I remind you, you married your high school sweetheart?”

He surrenders his hands into the air. “Right, right. Of course. Sorry.”

I drag myself to the bathroom and run the hot water in the sink.

“Does that mean you're going to school?” he calls after me.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever,” I call back, and then I slam the door.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. It's the same old me. On the same old Monday. With the same old stupid life.

I tug at my cheeks and run my fingers through my hair.

And the same old hair.

I open the drawer under my sink and rummage around until I find a pair of scissors. I gather all my hair into one fist, suck in a deep lungful of air, and start cutting. The scissors aren't sharp enough to get through the entire thing in one snip, so I have to work at it, sawing through the wad of hair like a lumberjack.

Finally, it all falls in a clump into the sink as the remainder of my now-jagged, shorn locks tumble around my shoulders. It looks absolutely horrible. Choppy and uneven. Some shorter strands curl around my ears while the longer ones drag across my shoulder. It looks like I visited a barbershop run by toddlers.

Well, at least it'll grow back by tomorrow morning.

I pull on a pair of ripped jeans and zip up a ratty once-black-now-gray hoodie that hasn't been washed in decades, pulling the hood up over my avant-garde haircut. I glance at my reflection in my busted bedroom mirror. The warped, splintered image is all too fitting.