I ride shotgun with my hair undone in the front seat of Will's car. He's got one hand on the steering wheel, the other on my heart.

I glance around the car and turn the radio volume down.

"Baby, is something wrong?" Will asks.

"Nothing," I say, "I was just thinking how we don't have a song."

"Our song is the slamming screen doors," he says. "Sneaking out late; tapping on your window. When we're on the phone and you talk real slow because it's late and your mom doesn't know. Our song is the way you laughed, the first date. Dang, I didn't kiss you and I should have."

When I get home, before I say amen, I ask God if he could play our song again.

.^.^.^.^.

I walk up my front porch steps after everything today had gone all wrong; I'd been trampled on and lost and thrown away.

I get into the hallway, well on my way to my loving bed. I almost don't notice all the roses and the note that says:

Our song is the slamming screen doors. Sneaking out late; tapping on your window. When we're on the phone and you talk real slow because it's late and your mom doesn't know. Our song is the way you laughed the first date. Dang, I didn't kiss you and I should have.

Once again tonight, I pray to God to play our song again.

I hear every album and listen to the radio, just waiting for something to come along that's as good as our song.

Because our song is the slamming screen doors. Sneaking out late; tapping on his window. When we're on the phone and he talks real slow because it's late and his mom doesn't know. Our song is the way he laughed the first date. Dang, I didn't kiss him and I should have.

Every night from now on, I ask God if he'll play our song again.

.^.^.^.^.

I ride shotgun with my hair undone in the front seat if Will's car. I grab a pen and an old napkin and I write down our song. . . .

I joined the Kinky Boots, Hairspray, and Wonder fandoms, if you're interested in imagines of any of those. But this book is ridiculously unpopular and I need requests so make me happy pleaaasseee.