Noel

When I'm onstage, I lose myself.

I lose myself in the music. Soul-speaking lyrics and the strumming of my acoustic guitar distract me, filling my head with chords and notes. I focus on my voice. My smile. Engaging with the crowd and bringing smiles to their faces. Playing music brings me joy.

Every guitar scar. Every callous. All those late nights I've spent practicing and writing songs.

They're worth it.

Usually.

Tonight, I can't stop thinking about the girl in the booth. Her wheat-coloured hair and her light blue-green eyes. They're a unique shade—a lighter shade of cyan, perhaps?

Even while I'm covering today's country hits, she piques my interest. I've never seen her before. I've been attending the University of Calgary for a year now. When you perform regularly at pubs within the Calgary region on weekends, you know people.

There's something intriguing about her. Pubs are a place where friends get together. They come to relax after midterms or finals. To drink and let loose. A country club like this is no exception.

Ever since I announced covering Thomas Rhett's songs, she hasn't looked my way again. Her back is to me, and she's focused on her food and milkshake. Something tells me she's hiding. From what, I don't know.

When I finish the song, people whistle and cheer. They shout my name, asking for another song. I give them a small wave, leaning down to pick up my water bottle. Sweat drips down the back of my neck. The spotlight is hot.

As I sip my water, I can't help but grin. Wowing the crowd is my goal every night. I love bringing smiles to their faces. Hearing them sing along to my covers.

It's difficult to not brag about my talent. I'm an excellent musician. An aspiring musician.

Gramps tells me I'll make it far in the country music industry—if a label picks me up. My guitar skills almost match Keith Urban's. My voice is a cross between Kip Moore's and Stuart Walker's. A country heartthrob. One that could stand out in the country music fanbase.

In addition, I love the spotlight. Not because I enjoy the attention, but because I enjoy the reactions of the crowd. Seeing people laugh, smile, sing, and dance brings joy to my heart. My performances allow people to create new, happy memories.

After my eleventh and last song, I say goodnight to the crowd. Saturday nights usually last longer. I'm tired, though. Lately, I've been having trouble sleeping. The nights have been long. It's what happens when I leave the farm and return to campus. Soon, the nightmares will fade away. Once my body is used to the schedule.

As I gather my guitar, my eyes scan the crowd for the blonde girl.

She's gone.

The booth she was sitting at is empty, save for the ketchup-stained plate and empty milkshake. From here, I can see two twenty-dollar bills on the table.

My lips twist to one side. Damn. I had been hoping to talk to her.

With one last wave to the crowd, I exit the stage. My guitar is the only equipment I have to pack with me. The rest belong to the pub. Within minutes, I'm outside, heading back to my dorm room.

Outside, the road is busy. People stop to talk to me, commenting on my performance tonight. I thank them with kind smiles and humble responses.

All while searching the crowd for that girl.

She's nowhere to be seen.

Damn.

Deciding to wait for the crowd to dissipate, I lean against the building. I close my eyes and exhale. All I see are those light cyan-coloured eyes—the perfect mixture of blue and green. Her golden-blonde hair. It reminds me of the wheat fields back on the farm during sunset.

I wanted to meet her, get to know her with more than a simple look. Anyone who gains more attention by trying to be invisible has a story inside them. One that wants to be heard.

Once the crowd has dissipated, I sling my guitar over my shoulder. Heading down the sidewalk toward the parking lot is calming. It's what I need after a show. I breathe in the fresh air and survey the aesthetics of campus.

My dorm room isn't far from here. Cutting across the parking lot shortens the walk. It's my shoulder's saving grace. My shoulder has permanent damage from an injury I got when I was younger. Hauling my guitar around isn't good for my shoulder. I prefer to be up on stage with my guitar instead of lugging it around. At least I can set it down or sit in a chair that provides enough support for my faulty shoulder.

Rolling my shoulder, I expel a heavy sigh. Tonight, the ache is prominent. Goddamn injuries. They always screw things up.

My gaze flicks across the parking lot, watching for any oncoming traffic. When the road is clear, I cross the parking lot, careful of my surroundings. With motorized vehicles, you can never be too careful.

My eyes are alert, watching for any movement. Then, on the other side of the parking lot, next to a pay parking machine, I see her.

The girl from the pub.

She's staring down at her phone, a frown on her face. I cock my head to the side. She looks... lost. Perhaps I was correct about her being new to campus. Maybe she can't find her building. I decide to head in her direction. I'm familiar with campus. Maybe I could help her out.

She turns around before I can say anything. Her eyes are focused on the phone. Without looking up, she steps onto the road. The same moment a bike occupying the bike lane comes rushing through the parking lot.

What happens next occurs before I can blink. I'm unaware of my actions until I'm sitting on the edge of the sidewalk. The girl is in my lap, her lips parted in shock and her hands gripping my shoulders. My guitar is on the ground, forgotten.

She stares at me.

I stare at her.

After the shock has eased, I glance at her, up and down.

"You okay?" I ask.

She shoves me away, climbing to her feet. Pain is a prominent emotion on her face. It intensifies when she puts weight on her right leg. No matter how hard she tries to hide it, her eyes betray her. "I'm fine," she replies, dusting dirt from her leggings.

I climb to my feet. "You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," she snaps.

I raise my hands. "Okay. Calm down. Campus bikers are ignorant. They think they own the damn streets. Are you okay?"

I don't mention how she should've been watching where she was going. Staring at your phone while near a parking lot or road isn't smart. You need to be alert, prepared to take on anything.

One moment can alter your world if you're not careful.

My words enhance her edginess. Her stance stiffens, like she's prepared to fight me. I watch as her hands clench around the leather strap across her body. "I didn't ask for your input on bikers."

What is it with this girl? I've done nothing but help her. All she's done is act like a snob. Maybe that's why she was alone in the pub. I contemplate that thought. It would make sense. She seems to hate people.

"Yeah," I reply, rolling my eyes. "Because you didn't almost get run over by one. No big deal. I didn't just save your ass."

Her eyes turn into thin slits. "I don't need a hero," she replies coolly.

I chuckle, shaking my head. "Sometimes even the heroines need a hero. Rarely, but sometimes. I take a step closer and hold out my hand. "Noel McLean. I'm a student here."

She eyes my hand, but then takes it. Her grip is weak. "Kinsley. I go here as well. Well... not officially. At least until Monday. I'm new here."

I smile. "It's nice to meet you, Kinsley."

She glances over her shoulder, giving me a view of the side of her face. Along the line of her jawbone is a long, thin scar. It's like the one on her cheekbone. They're both white with splashes of pink. These scars aren't new. They've aged.

Where did they come from? What happened to her?

I keep my eyes focused on her scars, wondering where they came from.

"Will you keep your eyes off of me, you creep?" she snaps.

I raise an eyebrow. This girl is a total contradiction. One second she's sweet, the next brazen and ruthless. In her eyes, I can see both pain and happiness. She's the embodiment of bittersweet.

"Sorry," I reply. "It's difficult to ignore someone's beauty. Especially when their eyes are so expressive."

She glares at me, sorrow present in her eyes. "I'm nothing special. Remember that."

With that, she turns around and walks away. This time, looking both ways before crossing the road toward the residential building.

I watch her walk away.

There's a slight limp in her stride.

Picking up my guitar, I rub my jaw. A crease is between my brows.

I've never met a girl so... unfriendly.

So intriguing.

* * *

Back in the dorm room, I'm greeted by Cole Robinson's British accent.

"Mate," he says, tossing a book to the side. He props himself up on his elbows. "You're back early."

I set my guitar on the foot of the twin-sized bed, giving Cole a half-hearted shrug. It's peculiar, me being home early. On any other evening, I would've stayed well past midnight at the pub. Playing live in front of an audience is addictive. But tonight was different. And not because of the girl I met.

Before the performance, I could feel the onset of a migraine. Sometimes, my migraines are so severe I can't concentrate. Combine that with exhaustion, and I'm hooped.

"Haven't been sleeping well," I murmur, kicking off my shoes. They land next to the bed, and I don't bother picking them up. Organizing shoes is the last thing on my mind. All I want to do is get ready for bed, take some painkillers, and sleep in tomorrow. It'll be the last time I can sleep in until this term is over.

"More nightmares?" Cole presses.

I glance at him. He looks worried. I can see the concern in his green eyes. In the way his jaw is set.

"Grit your teeth any harder," I say, "and you'll break them."

Cole doesn't take the bait. He raises his eyebrows, expecting an answer.

"Nah," I continue. "You know how I get before new terms. I'm anxious. It'll fade away soon."

Cole's far from believing me. Instead of arguing, though, he runs a hand through his dark hair. "Understandable. Your term is booked. There won't be a lot of time for playing."

Sighing, I remove my T-shirt. It ends up next to my shoes. I then rifle through my side of the small closet until I find a larger T-shirt. One that hangs on my frame. "I know. Being unable to play will drive me crazy. But I know how to regulate my time, Cole. In order to play, I need to be productive. All my homework, save for large projects, will be completed on or by Friday. That way, I can enjoy my Saturday nights." I give him a lopsided grin. "And if you do the same, you can enjoy your Saturday nights with Tristan."

A pillow hits the side of my head.

I stoop down and pick up the pillow, tossing it back at Cole. He catches it, shaking his head.

"Come on, mate," I laugh. My fake British accent is horrifying. Bothering Cole, however, is worth making my ears bleed. "You know it's true."

He continues to shake his head as he picks up his book.

Whenever Cole is reading a book, you don't bother him. If you do... Well, the consequences aren't good. Instead of goading him, I gather my belongings and head to the bathroom. Getting ready for bed only takes me ten minutes, and when I return to our dorm room, Cole is sitting on the edge of his bed. His elbows rest on his thighs. His face is in his hands. The book he was reading sits next to him, forgotten.

I freeze in the doorway.

He heaves a heavy sigh.

"Noel, mate," he says. His voice is rough. "Tell me you're okay. And don't lie to me."

I draw my bottom lip between my teeth. Cole has a habit of asking questions I can't answer. Or ones I can answer, but fail to give him the answer he wants.

Am I okay?

There are several approaches I could take to this question.

Cole wouldn't like the answers. None of them.

As memories rise to the surface, I snuff them out. I refuse to suffer. Returning to campus has made me a victim of stress. Stress that will fade once I'm back on schedule. It's nothing I can't handle. I'm confident I can balance between school work and music.

"Cole," I say, keeping my voice firm. "I'm okay. I promise."

When Cole's intense green gaze meets mine, I know he knows I'm lying. Guilt pinches my heart. It's never right to lie to a friend or family member.

But sometimes a pretty lie is better than a cruel truth.