“Let’s go outside. You need to stop thinking about every little thing, and you could clearly use a distraction while we wait for the brownies.”
“I don’t think going outside is going to be enough to quiet my mind.”
“Just trust me.”
Surprisingly, she doesn’t pepper me with questions as I set her and Maverick out on the back porch with nothing but the porch lights and the soft setting sun. Moments later, I return, guitar in hand.
Her eyes grow round. “You play guitar?”
“I do.”
She bites her lip as if she’s refraining from saying anything more, but the dark look in her eyes makes me shift nervously. If I think too hard about it, I’m going to take that look as more than it surely is.
I put my whole focus into tuning the guitar carefully. “It’s been a while since I’ve played. Life has been a little hectic over the last few weeks since I got this new roommate.” I give her a small smile, and she returns it with a look of pure glee. “Do you have any requests?”
“What can you play?”
“A lot. I’ve been playing since I was twelve years old. My guitar playing is much better than my baking in my opinion.”
She presses both of her palms to her cheeks and slowly drags them down her face. “Rhett!”
“What?”
“How are you so perfect?”
“I’m not.” I feel the shadows rolling in at her words, but I do my best to shake them off.
Thinking for a moment, I finally offer, “How about some Warren Zeiders?”
“You mean you listen to music that isn’t by George Strait?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course I do. I’ll play you the song on the guitar first and then I’ll show you the real song. I don’t need you judging my rusty guitar skills after you’ve heard the real thing.”
“Okay, but you have to tell me the name of the song first or I’m never going to be the country music aficionado you want me to be.”
“’Weeping Willow.’”
As I begin strumming gently, I let the music take me to another place. I’m no longer sitting on this back porch. I’m a part of the music. My foot taps along involuntarily. I don’t realize it until I see Olivia’s look of shock, but I’m singing along to the song.
She gives me an eager nod of assurance. “Keep going,” she whispers, barely audible.
Her words encourage me, so I keep going, keeping my eyes on Olivia, strumming vigorously, and singing about how the woman in the song is so incredible that she could even make a weeping willow smile. As I play the closing chords, it hits me how perfectly this song fits Olivia. She’s brought color to my life and made me smile when I had fallen into this stale routine I never planned on getting out of.
Her eyes remain closed till the end like she’s completely absorbed in what I’m playing for her. I can’t help but think maybe I did a good job. Perhaps I really did get her out of her head for those three minutes.
When I stop, her eyes shoot open. “Play another. Please.”
I begin strumming again, this time playing a more upbeat tune. “This one is ‘Coal’ by Dylan Gossett.”
I lose myself in the song as I recall the lyrics that talk about a man’s struggles through life, wondering how those struggles and all the weight they’ve brought with them haven’t turned him from coal into a diamond. I have always related deeply to those lyrics, but I can’t help but feel just a little bit lighter this time playing the song with Olivia’s adoring gaze on me.
As I wind down the song again, she admits, “I don’t want to hear the original versions of the songs. I like yours.” The words are a whisper, as if she’s afraid they’ll take us out of this moment. “I never want you to stop playing. It just brings me so much peace. I know you’re not going to like hearing this, but you’resogood.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice.” I brush her off, pulling my hat down to hopefully hide the way my face is turning an aggressive shade of red. “I’ve written a few of my own songs, without lyrics of course. Would you like to hear one?”
Her face splits into a huge grin, and I don’t even have to wait for her response to strike the first chord. I’m not sure what compelled me to make this offer. I only started writing songs five years ago. Inspiration came from some of the best and then some of the most difficult times in my life, and I haven’t been able to write music since. Writing music helped me get through a tough time of unrelenting grief and guilt, and then it was over. I was done. The songs were never meant to be shared with a soul. Yet here I am.
Less than thirty seconds in, Olivia is closing her eyes again as she gently sways her body to the melody, completely enraptured. There’s a moment where I consider telling her everything, where this song came from, and why I am who I am today. It should be a betrayal to share this song with her. It was written for someone else after all, but it doesn’t feel wrong. When I glance up at her and see her soft amber eyes set on me, it makes all this feel right. That look makes me feel like a good man. It makes me feel worthy of love and adoration, but I know better.
