“You sure about that?” A challenge but not a denial.
“I’m talking about those songs you hate. The ones people told you to write to line their pockets. But everything else? Yeah, I’m sure. Don’t worry. There’s a little bit of you in everything I write. It’s enviable. Couldn’t stop it if I tried.”
“You know every song?”
“By heart.”The same way I know you.
“Well, then let’s hope you keep up.” She smirks, stepping toward the side to tilt her mic into position. She doesn’t even introduce us, just starts picking at the strings.
“Loving me’s a fool’s errand. I’ve got this heart I’m bad at sharin’.” The words sit low, resonating in her chest with a tone reminiscent of old country and blue grass.
I pick up the next line easily. “You say you’re hard to love, but I think love’s just hard on you.”
Her eyes narrow as I change the lyrics, so it sounds like I’m singing to her and not just with her. Using her own words as a rebuttal against her fears.
“I ain’t a dog, but I do bite.” She leans toward me, her teeth clamping down with a click on the last word.
“Then I’ll say I love you right to your face with my blood fresh on your teeth.”
And we keep going. Her telling me she’s hard to love as I remind her that every reason she thinks she’s unlovable is what I love most about her.
Singing together isn’t as simple as getting the notes right. It’s about listening, adjusting, understanding the nuances of your partner’s voice and doing what you can to highlight it. And when someone does the same for you, it makes you feel heard, understood.
There’s a trust that comes from it. Knowing that someone will strengthen you where you’re weakest.
“I am my father’s daughter. These feet of mine love to wander.” She circles me, abandoning her mic, but her voice rings true throughout the bar. “Don’t go thinkin’ now that you’ve caught my eye.That I’ll stick around and be your wife,” she sings, strumming hard before tapping out a rhythm on the body of the guitar, the steadybump bumpof a heart.
I counter, “Please stick around and be my wife.”
The air is heavy like after a summer rain, weighing down the lungs of all those who breathe in. Instead of moisture, it’s the truth that lingers between us, leaving us panting.
In a blur, she’s swinging the borrowed guitar off her back. That’s it I think. One song and now she’s done.
But then she’s there in front of me. No, not just in front of me. Touching me. Hands on my face. Lips hovering painfully close to mine.
“You changed the lyrics,” she says.
“I didn’t know how else to make sure I had a chance to say what I needed to.” I swallow hard, studying her face. The heavy lidded eyes, full lips, and knitted brows that invite me in. “Are you mad?”
“What do you think?” She shifts closer, fingers sinking into the fabric of my shirt.
I shake my head. “I can’t tell any more. What are you thinking in that brilliant mind of yours?”
“That I might die if you don’t kiss me, Gaflin.” Our breaths mingle in the millimeters between us.
My last name, her lips. Name a better combination.
Oh, wait. I know one.
My mouth against hers.
Hand pressing against the base of my skull as our mouths meet, fingers clutching at my mess of hair.
Soft as I remember, but more sure. Knowing what she wants, what she deserves, and fitting her lips against mine. Fingers drag down my neck, pausing at the point where my pulse is thrumming wildly. My hands find her hips, pulling her flush against me.
This is what I want.
What I need.
