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It wasn’t often that Morgan had time to himself, and it was even less often that Cassandra was nowhere in sight. He’d pulled into her apartment complex, expecting her baby-blue Cadillac to be in the carpark, and for her to answer the door wearing a smile and little else. However, she was nowhere to be found.
She’d given him a key-card a few weeks before, and so he let himself in. Her apartment looked exactly like he’d last seen it; books stacked in piles next to her over-flowing bookcase; many pairs of heels littered the floor of her bedroom; and her shelf of mugs looked full to burst.
With nothing to do but wait for her to return, Morgan flopped onto the couch and connected his phone to her stereo. It didn’t take long for him to decide what to listen to; Dean Martin had always been a favourite of his, and was also conveniently one of Cassandra’s favourites, too.
The soothing voice of the long-dead crooner filled the room, and Morgan couldn’t help but draw parallels between the lyrics and his own feelings. Every word sung resonated deep within him, more than they had ever done before.
I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face. How ironic was it that a song Morgan had made fun of in the past was now one of the ones that affected him the most? He’d thought that it wasn’t possible for one to depend on another so much, and that everything that suggested otherwise was utter bullshit. Now that wasn’t the case. At all.
Instead of crooning along like he usually would have, all Morgan wanted to do was punch something. Instead of making him less bored, all listening to Dean Martin had done was make him realise that he was irreversibly and undeniably in love with Cassandra Davenport. And it hurt.