No! It can't be. His tenor tone wraps around me like a predator squeezing its prey. I'm trapped, unable to move. While the song is an upbeat melody, the memory of the day he left leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

I listen again, maybe it's just the radio, or TV. The house is silent minus the settling noises that creak at all hours of the day and night. This is different. It leaks in through the closed windows coming directly from the wrap around porch on the old colonial house next door.

The bubbling water on the stove sizzles as it splashes and hits the flame under the pot. With trembling hands, I shut the burner on the stove. I decide against pouring the boiling hot water into the red and white Christmas mug on the yellow linoleum counter. I step aside and wait. I'm not sure what I'm waiting for, maybe for it to end?

How can someone both hate the sound of a voice and miss it all at the same time? Above the sink, the small window calls to me. The white curtains are pulled just enough where if I stood on my tip toes I could peer through. I lift myself, my hands grasping on the edge of the counter. My eyes peer over the edge of the small sill the window sits on.

"Why is it so quiet in -"

My hand slips, making my heart thrust into a nearly tachycardic state.

"Jesus, Belle, you scared me half to death."

"Sorry," she grins, her brown eyes narrowing on me. "What's with the look?" She runs her hand over her face, then lifts said hand in a questioning manner.

"Were you playing music a few minutes ago? I swear I heard-"

"Weston Daniels?" She finishes for me.

"Yeah. Weston. Was it the radio?"

Belle sucks on her bottom lip, a terrible habit she picked up at a young age along with her nail biting. She lifts her thumb to her teeth and starts to nibble.

"That would be a big fat no, huh?"

"I'm sorry. I wish I had better news."

Weston Daniels, the guy who spent our entire childhood chasing me, our entire teenage years telling me he wanted to marry me, our twenties taking that step, and now the last two years out of the picture while he went off playing rock shows on the road, leaving nothing more than a crumpled piece of paper saying he'd be back and to wait for him.

"When? How? Did you?"

"Mom talked to Suzanne. She told me not to tell. He's home for the holiday's, something about finding himself after the Ashlee Jean scandal."

Ashlee Jean; punk rock queen, and my ex-idol. After the news rang out about her and Weston, I couldn't stomach listening to her anymore.

Belle ties up her chestnut hair in one of those messy buns as she crosses the kitchen. We're both short, so she has to lift herself up to see him as well. She's quiet as she watches out the window. His voice has faded into a soft hum, as he strums each guitar string with a familiar pattern.

"Maybe he's trying to get your attention- Oh. Hot cocoa, my favorite."

"Get your hands off my comfort drink!"

She chuckles, lifting her hands in surrender and backing away. "Okay. Okay. But seriously, why else would he be on this side of the porch facing our house."

I shrug. "He's not."

"Oh, but he is. Look for yourself."

"What if he sees me?"

"I can't tell if he's gotten hotter." She grins.

I shove her away, smirking. There's no denying my curiosity, but I can't tell what my emotions might do if I go through with it. Avoidance would be better. I've been dancing around the subject of Weston for the past five years, I can cha cha around it a bit longer.

Belle jumps up several times.

"Oh-my-god, you are so immature, he's going to see you," I chuckle.

Belle just turned twenty-one, but she acts more like she's twelve.

"Fine, I'll look."

I lift myself back up, using my hands to brace myself on the counter. His head hangs low. Jet black hair swoops in front of his eyes, as he strums the guitar. I'm okay until he shakes the hair from his face and his dark eyes find mine through the window. There's no way he can see me, but as I continue to stare, he stands, taking several steps towards the rail of his porch.

The air in my lungs deflates, making it harder to breathe. I settle myself back down on flat feet. The hot cocoa no longer sounds appealing as my stomach churns.

"So, did he get hotter?" She asks.

Tingles start to invade my nostrils. My eyes sting with the threat of tears. Watching him on TV and seeing him in magazines is one thing but having his dark eyes zero in on me in person is enough to knock the wind out of me.

"You can have my cocoa. I've suddenly lost my appetite," I whisper.

"Oh, Chloe I..."

"No. It's okay. Um - we'll leave for the Christmas market at four thirty, I need some time to myself."

"Chlo-"

I lift my hand. The tears pool at the corner of my eye and if I blink, they'll fall. I somehow make it up the stairs, down the hall, into my room, the second door on the left, shut the door, and collapse onto my bed before the tears fall.