Page 140 of No Longer Just Neighbors

She settles her chin against my chest. “I can still recall lying in bed wondering how one person could possibly make that much noise.”

“Then you started requesting songs.” I smile and trail my fingers down her back. “That was my favorite part.”

“The part where I told you what to play?”

“The part where I knew you were listening.”

Her expression softens.

I can still picture that duplex perfectly. Two front doors a few feet apart. Two porches. Two kitchens. Two bedrooms separated by one wall that somehow became its own language before either of us realized what was happening.

At first, I played because I knew it annoyed her. Then I started choosing songs because I knew she liked them, and eventually she started knocking back with requests, complaints, or sometimes nothing more than letting me know she was there.

“I’m glad we didn’t cut a door through it,” Ruby says.

I laugh. “Think about explaining that to the landlord. We would’ve lost both deposits.”

“Would have been worth it.” She smiles and settles against me again, and for a few seconds, I just listen to the rain.

A year ago, I thought making a relationship work around touring meant somehow figuring out how to keep everything from changing while I was gone.

We were both right about one thing.

Everything changed.

I spent months on the road, came home, left again, came back again. We learned how to argue over bad connections and how to stop reading too much into a missed call. She learned that telling me she misses me doesn’t mean I’ll hear it as a demand to come home, and I learned that asking how she’s doing isn’t the same thing as checking whether she still loves me.

Mostly, we learned that being apart only works because we built something worth coming back to.

I shift closer until our noses almost touch.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed.”