The way my feet shuffle down the hallway, I could easily be mistaken for the victim of a zombie apocalypse. I can't help it, lifting my feet any more than half an inch off the ground requires too much effort, so it's shocking that my morning drag doesn't cause Finn to stir. He slept on the couch last night and for whatever reason I'm a bit surprised to see him still here. I feel like I dreamed him, he's beautiful enough to be a dream.  

His body stretches the length of the couch, his head resting on his now inked arm. The same arms that used to envelope me anytime I needed to hide from the world. I take a bold step closer to examine him, looking at the lines and curves of his face which were once so familiar to me. The way his bottom lip parts slightly from the top one reminds me of how they kissed me. How they claimed me, and how I could never get enough. I touch my fingers to my own lips in remembrance when Finn's eyes flutter open. I'm like a kid caught with my hand in the candy jar and mutter a surprised, "oh."  

He grins. "Are you in the habit of watching people sleep?"  

Just you. "No. I was coming to wake you up, see if you wanted coffee." 

"No thanks," Finn says. "I try to stay away from caffeine. It makes me vibe like a freak." He sits up slowly and stretches his arms above his head and the blanket, which had provided him with considerable coverage, drops.  

I can't remember the last time I saw Finn without his shirt on but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he didn't look like this. His nipples are pierced, the hoops like little beacons on the most perfect pair of pecs I've ever had the privilege of seeing. Those sit above of a set of abdominals that are absurd. There is simply no other way to describe it. I feel the heat rush to face and my eyes widen.  

A cocky expression crosses his face and he says, "like what you see?"  

I'm gaping. I don't want him to know how he affects me, so I straighten my spine. "A masochist?"  

"These," he points to the piercings, clearly unaffected by my cool tone. "Didn't even hurt." 

"Uh huh." I don't believe that for a second.  

"Hey, mind if I have a shower."  

I sweep my arm to the side in the direction of the hallway, "be my guest. I have to call work and Brit anyway."  

He folds the quilt and places it on the sofa cushion. "Sounds good," he says. As he walks by to pass me, he stops and kisses my forehead. "I'm glad I found you."  

Me too, I want to say but I don't. Instead I simply smile.  

The water for the shower starts so I turn the coffee pot on and leave a voicemail at work before scrolling through my contacts for Brittney and press the call button with my thumb. 

"Please tell me someone isn't dead," she says instead of hello, when she picks up the phone. "Because there would be no other acceptable reason why you'd call me at five in the morning."  

"It's eight here."  

She yawns. "Bite me."  

"Maybe when I get there."  

My statement gets her attention. In fact, I can picture her bolting straight up in bed. "Come again."  

"When I get to California."  

"What?" Brittney's shriek is so loud that I almost drop the phone. "You're moving back?"  

"I won't be there permanently," I clarify, "I'm coming back with Finn for a week or so."  

"Finn?" Even though I didn't think it was possible, her voice is louder than before. "You're with Finn?"  

"Yes."  

"How? Why?"  

"It's a long story."  

"It's five AM, I have all day."  

"I don't. I have to leave or we will never get there."  

"Oh my God. I can't believe you're leaving me hanging. Finn is bringing you home?"  

Is he? Is it home? I'm not sure anymore. "Yeah. When I get to California, we can talk. I'll tell you everything."  

"You'd better."  

"I will. See you soon?"  

"Yeah," Brittney says, "see you soon. Tell Finn he'd better drive safe. You're precious cargo."  

"I will. Bye, Brit."  

"Bye," she says.  

I hang up and turn to fill my cup.Finn's standing there in his jeans and tee shirt, his hair still damp from his shower.  

I throw a hand to my chest because I'm certain my heart seized. "Jesus. You're like those creepy vampires from that show, sneaking up on people."  

He runs a hand through his hair, completely ignoring that he caught me off guard. "It can be permanent you know."  

"What can be permanent?" 

"California. You can stay with me."  

I turn to get the cup of coffee I'd been craving before he materialized in the kitchen. "We don't know each other anymore."  

"We can pick up where we left off," he says. "You wait and see."  

"I doubt it."  

"Have a little faith, pretty girl. It'll be like we didn't lose the last five years, I promise."  

"Can you grab my suitcase?" I ask, changing the subject. "It's a little heavy."  

"Yeah," he says, "sure thing." 

Ten minutes later, Finn is sweating profusely. His tee shirt is clinging to him like a second skin and I wish I'd brought a fan. Who looks hot sweaty? Finn, that's who. The elevator is out of order so we end up taking the stairs-- all four flights of them. He wrestles with my luggage the whole way to his car, which, to my delight, is the same black Chevy he drove so long ago. He groans, huffs and curses, but finally succeeds in stuffing it into the trunk. "A little heavy, Laney?" he scoffs. "Pretty sure trying to shove an octopus into a net would have been easier than that."  

"You complain more than a girl. Would you like some cheese with that whine?"  

His mouth drops into an astonished 'o'. "Find me a girl that could lift that," he points to my suitcase, "so I can run the other way screaming."  

I laugh and look down, feeling guilty that my bag weighs more than I do. 

"Hey," he says. "Before we leave, I want you to promise me something."  

"What?" 

"Promise me you won't look back. Promise me you'll only live in the moment. Let there be no past, no future, only today. It'll be the best time of your life if you do."  

"I promise," I say. It's a lie, I can't help but to think about our past. I think about it all the time.  

"Swear it."  

"I swear."  

"Wait a second." He roots around in the trunk for something and pulls out a vinyl record. Elvis Presley's 'From Elvis in Memphis.' He holds it like he's delivering a pizza and says, "Place your left hand on the king and repeat after me."  

I giggle. "You're making me swear on Elvis."  

"Yes." 

I place my left hand on Elvis' face and hold my right one up, arching a brow. "This is kind of blasphemous. It's Elvis."  

"The god of rock and roll," he says.  

"Still I really shouldn't be swearing on Elvis."  

"You have a better idea?" he asks.  

I shake my head.  

"Then put your hand on Mr. Presley and repeat after me." He clears his throat and starts, "I, Delany Watts solemnly swear to spend the next week living in the moment, appreciating the small things and finding my kick ass songwriting mojo. I will laugh at all of Finn's jokes, even the bad ones. And I will try to have a good time."  

I repeat his spiel. "There. Happy?"  

He tosses the record in the trunk, shuts it and grins. "That'll do."  

After adjusting the rearview and side mirrors, he inserts his iPod into a portable docking station that plugs into a cigarette lighter.  

He flicks his finger across the screen before stopping on a playlist he's called 'Finn and Delany - Until Forever.'  

"When did you have time to make that?" I ask. Did he put it together while I slept? More importantly, what songs are on that list? My curiosity is piqued.  

"I made it before I left California."  

"You just assumed I would come?"  

"I knew you would," he says, unfazed.  

"How?"  

"Because, forever hasn't happened yet."  

He doesn't say another word as he starts to drive and I settle into the listen to the songs that remind him of us.

                                                                   ***

Eight hours later, the lunch we stopped for has long been digested any my stomach grumbles loudly. As much as I don't want to admit it, Finn's prediction was dead on. The conversation is so effortless, it's as though time never stole what it did from us. This realization is both thrilling and terrifying.  

I want to let myself want him again but I can't. Five years of wondering keeps holding me back. About 30 miles from Memphis, my feet are stretched out in front of me on the dashboard and I'm admiring my recent pedicure while he tells me about the band.  

"Leo is the new guy," he says. "When Johnny moved to get into Med school, we needed a new lead guitarist. Leo stepped up. But Ridge is still drumming and Aaron is still playing bass. So other than that, nothing has changed since old times."  

I continue to ask him questions; a purely strategic move to help me ignore the butterflies in my belly when I think about being with him again. "So why Starlight?" I ask. "How'd that happen?"  

"Persistence," he replies. "I showed up in Ben Steele's office twice a week for months before he listened to the demo. He's the manager for new talent at Starlight, so even though I'm probably not the only guy who has thought of it, I was certainly the most tenacious. Got on a first name basis with his security team, started bringing them doughnuts."  

"You did not."  

"I did. A lot of hard work, a lot of persistence and possibly bribery in the form of deep fried, sugar coated lard. But no amount of lard could make me able to write lyrics which is one of the many reasons I need you." 

"I think putting all your eggs in one basket is a risky move, Finn. I told you I can't write. It's like a five year writer's block."  

He turns his head, smiles and winks. "I have faith in you, Laney. You won't do me wrong. You can do this."  

Half an hour later, I'm practically hanging out the car window like a dog, taking in the sights of Elvis Presley Boulevard. I should pinch myself. I've wanted to go to Graceland forever. Apparently, Finn has not forgotten.  

"I can't believe you've brought me here."  

"You always used to talk about going. Figured better late than never."  

"Did you make me swear on Elvis on purpose?"  

He steers the car into a parking stall and cuts the engine. When he comes to my side of the car and opens my door, he says, "I refuse to answer that question under the grounds that it might incriminate me. Now, put on your blue suede shoes and let's go."  

If I'd lived long before my time and was a mega talented, super rich, rock star, I couldn't have done a better job designing Graceland myself. It's everything I hope it would be and then some.  

The outside is a massive structure and the large entryway is flanked on either side by columns that look like they could touch the sky. Walking in the front room, there's stained glass that looks to be the feathers of a peacock. I absentmindedly trace one with my fingertip.  

"It's beautiful," I whisper.  

"The man had taste."  

"Do you think Elvis wrote his own songs?"  

Finn feigns shock. "Laney, the Elvis loving poet, I cannot believe you don't know the answer to this."  

"I never looked into it, partly because I'm not sure I want to know."  

I can feel him behind me, so I focus even harder on the stained glass peacock feathers instead of him. "Why don't you want to know?"  

"Because it never seemed that important to me, I guess. I never gave it that much merit. He just made great music. I don't know if I want to know it didn't come from his heart."  

"What if it came from someone's like yours?" he asks. "What then?"  

I shrug, "What if it did? Is it as special?"  

"Maybe," he allows. "Everyone has a story, maybe Elvis, maybe someone else was just trying to tell it."  

We tour the mansion, from room to room with the exception of upstairs. Elvis' personal quarters are off-limits to tourists out of respect. I stand at the bottom of the stairs and take a moment to pay a silent tribute to him.  

"Do you think he had any regrets?" Finn asks. 

"Elvis. No, I don't think so. He was a legend before he was gone. He had a gorgeous wife and a beautiful little girl. What else could he have wanted from life?"  

Finn's hand slips into mine. "You're forgetting one very important thing," he says. "Elvis did what he loved. He didn't sell out for something less. That's important too, isn't it?" His words hurt. Deep down, that's what he thinks of me. That I sold out on my dream.  

We finish our tour, eat and then find a roadside motel to spend the night in. Finn pays for both of our rooms and the minute I'm behind closed doors in mine, I head for the shower.  

The warm water rushes over me as I think about how I can fix it. How I can find the rhythm that used to flow through my veins. I wash my hair and condition it twice, then loofa my body with cucumber mint soap and start to hum, when I'm halfway through my left thigh, I stop.  

I rip open the shower curtain and practically eject myself from the bathroom. Dripping wet with mint soap I rush into the bedroom and pull the notepad from the desk drawer and scribble the words,

"You think that I'm a sell out,  

You ought to get the hell out, 

And let me fall down on my own,  

Your words a hurtful sting, 

But they shouldn't mean a thing,  

You left me feeling cold long ago."

I stare at them. I stare at them like they're written in my blood. I stare like they're my soul on paper, because that's exactly what they are.