Show Me How by Molly McAdams Page A

never had this, and I didn’t know if I ever would again . . . so I wanted it for as long as it could last.
    I’m not sure.
    Stranger: Right . . . probably best, yeah?
    Yeah . . .
    Stranger: Before I let you go, can you tell me something?
    Of course :)
    Stranger: What ever happened to that not-­so-­suicide note that started all of this?
    Ha . . . the song?
    Stranger: It was a song?
    The beginning of one, yes.
    Stranger: . . . were those all songs?
    My cheeks burned with heat as I quickly tapped on the screen.
    Songs and poems, yes . . .
    Stranger: So did you finish it?
    I blinked slowly as I realized I couldn’t even think of anything to say about my nights with Ben other than what I’d already said. I’d been thinking about those nights for years before I finally allowed myself to write about them, and then my Stranger came and made me wonder why I was still waiting for a guy who wasn’t even alive to love me.
    Actually, no. I’d forgotten about it with our notes and everything.
    Stranger: Are you saying my words can make you forget? ;)
    Stranger: Are you going to?
    Yes. That’s exactly what I was saying. I chewed on my bottom lip as I thought, then finally responded.
    Ha ha. I’m not sure. I thought I had an entire song about what I was for him, and what he never was for me—­but now I’m not so sure.
    I flew up to a sitting position on the couch, and glanced back up at the window. The sky now a mixture of pinks, purples, and oranges.
    Stranger: He didn’t deserve a song anyway
    Hold on. I’ll be back with something, but then I really need to get ready for work.
    I ran through the warehouse and tiptoed into my room, and snatched my notebook up before running back out to the couch. I flipped to the first clean page since our notes had taken up so much of the others, quickly wrote out what had been Ben’s song, and then added a little bit below. Once it was done, I took a picture and sent it to Stranger.
    Who listens to your sad songs
    The shoulder that you cry on
    Out on that ledge you walk on
    When you’re sinking
    Who keeps your secrets locked up
    When there’s no one you can trust
    I know it’s much more than just wishful thinking
    Just say the words and you know I’ll be there
    You can’t believe it’s daylight
    We stayed up again all night
    Just ta Talking just cause you like the way I make the words sound
    I waited for what seemed like hours but was really only a minute before those little dots popped up. My heart raced and I bit at my lip as I worried about what he would say.
    Stranger: That’s not about him, is it?
    No . . .
    Stranger: Will there be more?
    I guess that depends.
    Stranger: On?
    Our conversations, and if they continue.
    Stranger: Words . . . you’re not getting rid of me.
    My cheeks burned as my lips stretched into a smile.
    Then eventually.
    Stranger: Good. Go get ready for work. I’ll talk to you later.
    Have a good day, Stranger.
    I stood from the couch and started walking back toward the bedroom when my phone vibrated in my hand again.
    Stranger: Hey, Words? Having what you wrote about him at the beginning makes it seem like that’s what is happening now. He’s your past . . . I think he should come after us.
    Us . I stared at that word for the longest time as those stupid, stupid butterflies took up residence in my stomach again, then I tapped out a response.
    Okay then.

 
    Chapter Nine
    Deacon
    June 11, 2016
    I GLANCED AT Charlie’s car as Graham and I walked up to the warehouse, and shifted the bags in my hands when he knocked on the door. After knocking again and not getting an answer, Graham tried the door, and sent me an annoyed look when it opened.
    This was Thatch, but Jagger and Grey really needed to start locking their door.
    Loud music was blasting through the warehouse, and from experience, we knew that meant