Page 32 of Sing Your Secrets
nine
Reese
Ooooh, don’t do it. Don’t do it. It’s borderline stalkerish.
I glance at the empty right lane, clear as crystal. I could change lanes right now, take the next turn, and just cruise on past The Garage at nine o’clock at night on a Sunday. Dad and I got to talking and I didn’t even realize how late it was. I was soaking up our old tradition of daddy-daughter studio Sundays.
I love traditions. I like routines and knowing what to expect.
Friday nights are reserved for my best friends. Samosas, sangria, and pretending to watch Sex and the City as we all just talk over the show—by far, my favorite tradition.
Every Wednesday, I meet my mom. I really wish I could change our standing lunch date to every other week. An entire hour and a half with Mom is tiresome. She usually spends our quality time together nitpicking at me—my pants are too tight, my blouses are too low-cut, endless suggestions of getting a Brazilian blowout, and finally “doing something with my hair.” It's annoying, but she never schedules her court dates on Wednesday, out of respect for our tradition. I do appreciate the effort. Plus, she guilts me into spending time with her by reminding me of the enormous student loan debt she paid off on my behalf.
Sundays with my dad are still the oldest tradition. It started as a custody agreement. Mom used to only let me eat dinner with Dad on Sundays. She’d drop me off and pick me up exactly three hours later—she didn’t trust him to drive. My Dad is a kind soul and a brilliant music producer…but let’s be real—he’s a fucking mess.
He was pretty much drunk from when I was twelve until his first stint behind bars for drunk driving. He got out and swore he’d get sober, but it was rinse and repeat. It took him fourteen years to realize that he didn’t simply like to “work with a buzz,”—no. Dad has a problem.
Dad’s working on his problem.
He was all smiles tonight while he sipped on sweet, iced tea and showed me his new mixing table. He built a sound studio right in his basement, which is convenient seeing as the authorities basically obliterate your driver’s license after three DUIs.
He was busy running me through all the technical logistics of his new equipment and I was busy fantasizing about popping Miles in the booth. Goddamn, I can’t stop thinking about his voice.
He carries such a powerful and clean melody.
He clearly has great range.
His tone is sweet and flowy, but kind of grisly in the right places.
Watching the Ginuwine reel on Instagram was just the beginning. Once I had his performer name, MiLo, I hunted down an old YouTube channel called MiLo Covers, which I’m sure he thought was buried. He can credit me for about two-hundred views. Hopefully that’s at least eighty cents headed his way.
Ah, fuck it.
I flick on my blinker and slide into the right line, just in time to make the turn.
I’ll just see if the lights are on…
Not a big deal. It’s late, no one will be there. Glancing in the back seat, Miles's shirt is washed and neatly folded. All right—a thinly veiled excuse, but an excuse, nonetheless.
Slowing my car to a near crawl, I drive past The Garage. The giant dumpsters that were here last week are gone, and the debris that was sitting by the building has been cleared. It just looks like a regular brick building, lights off and empty—
Oh.
Pulling into the gravel parking lot and throwing the car into park, I roll down the passenger window to get a better view. Clearly visible, thanks to the sidewalk street lamps, it’s unmistakably Miles who is slumped against the front doors. His knees are tucked to his chest and his beanie is pulled down low.
What the hell?
Is he...?
Sleeping on the sidewalk?
“Miles?”
He lifts his head abruptly, a startled look on his face. He rubs his eyes, then blinks in my direction, trying to process who is shouting at him. I open the car door and walk slowly over to him, to give myself time to control the smile on my face. He groans miserably as he looks me up and down, his gaze landing right where my skin-tight jeans hug my hips.
“Of course,” he grumbles.
“Of course, what?”