Free Boy in a Band (A Morgan Mallory story) by Lisa Loomis

cute. Some bring stuff.”
    I pictured him playing and beautiful gir ls sitting, watching him as I did. I felt my lips tighten at each side, I was jealous. What stuff did he mean?
                  “Why are you telling me this?” I asked, feeling slighted.
                  “I don’t know, just thought about it. We played last night over in Sean’s garage, and some new girls came by. One girl brought beer. So me and the boys had some drinks with the girls.”
                  I could tell he was feeling proud of himself. Maybe trying to make me feel like he was hot stuff, which I already did.
                  “I’m happy for you,” came out more sarcastically then I intended.
                  Mathew cocked his head and laughed.
    “What’s so funny?”
                  “Nothing,” he said as he picked up his guitar and resumed playing.
                  When he next put down his guitar, he surprised me by getting up and moving toward me. As I watched him get closer, he gave me a knowing smile. Knowing what? My thoughts? That’s what it felt like. I took a slow breath in as he dropped down next to me on the bed. The bed bounced, and I had to put my hands down to keep from falling over.
                  “You like it when I play?” he asked, running two fingers down my bare arm.
                  “I do,” I answered, not looking directly at him, afraid of my feelings.
                  “Why?” he asked, turning my face to look at him.
                  I jerked my head back away from his touch, which made him grin.
    “Why do you ask?” What did he want from me?
                  “I don’t know. Just wonder what goes on in that head of yours,” he paused.
                  I wondered why it mattered. He was getting more bold in things he asked me, maybe more comfortable.
    “When you look like you 're someplace else, where is that?” he asked.
    “Didn’t think you paid that much attention ,” I said, surprised.
                  My heart raced, and I could feel a throbbing in my throat. I could only hope what was happening inside was not openly obvious on my face. The nearness of him seemed to create emotions inside I couldn’t control. One minute I’d be fine and the next going to mush. I could no more tell him about my someplace else than fly; my thoughts were all about him.
                  “Morgan,” he said, lifting my chin to look at him. “Are you okay?”
    H e seemed genuinely concerned as I struggled to contain my emotions.
                  “Of course, I’m okay,” I laughed, pulling away from him.
                  I wondered what made him ask: my startled look or the lack of color in my face. I felt as if the blood had drained right out and raced to my heart.
    “I think I’ll head downstairs ,” I said, uncrossing my legs.
    I was worried he’d realize how I felt about him and that he wouldn’t feel the same or think my feelings were stupid. He put his hand on my thigh and gave it a squeeze. I was having sensory overload: I could smell him, feel the heat of him. I looked toward the door and slowly got up. His hand dropped from my leg. Breathe, Morgan I told myself breathe . When I reached the door, I pulled it open and turned around. He sat where I had left him, hands on the bed, watching me. He tilted his head to one side, his gaze still questioning. I drew in my breath to slow down my thoughts. He was waiting, wanting an answer. To what? I couldn’t remember.
    “You didn’t really answer my question ,” he said.
                  “I said I’m okay.”
                  “Not that one. Why do you like watching me play?” he asked again, smiling
                  Now I remembered.
                  “Because I think you’re good,” I