Nash makes a gesture I can’t quite unravel, part dismissive, part embarrassed, a whole lot of hurt. “Wasn’t meant to be.”
I look down at the guitar in my hands. “But did it make you happy?”
“My marriage?” He sags against the wall, looking like he has no idea where to begin answering that one. I hurryto clarify because I’m sensing a painful history here and don’t want him to feel obligated to share.
“No. The guitar.”
“Oh. Right.” Relief washes over Nash’s face. “I mean, sure. I liked playing; I just wasn’t very good at it.”
“Then it wasn’t a waste.”
He lifts one brow like he’s not so sure.
“I’m serious,” I say. “Joy matters. Peace matters. Music gives people something real, even if it’s not billable or quantifiable.” I search for words to express something that feels too big to have come from me, like it’s a universal truth, a fundamental reality, a kernel of something real and important we’ve all started to forget.
“Life shouldn’t just be hustle for hustle’s sake, grind because… what? Money? Success? Of course those things matter, but surely that’s not the point of it all. Is it easier when my bank account is full and I’m not worrying how I’ll pay my bills? Yes. Undoubtedly. But there’s an ache in my soul that’s only soothed by music, dancing, staring at a perfect blue sky or spending a day connecting with someone. I don’t know… the rest is all… plastic.”
I shrug because I know I failed to express what I really mean, and the more I chase down the explanation, the more nebulous it becomes. Like trying to remember a dream you’ve already mostly forgotten. You know it happened, it felt real and vivid and important, but it’s just… gone.
Nash stares at me for a second, unreadable. Then his mouth curves—not a full smile, but something like it. “You sound like my mom.”
“Good. Nora Kincaid is one of the wisest women I know. Or at least she was when I was twelve.”
“She still is,” he says, softer now. “Pain in the ass, but wise.”
I grin and lift the guitar slightly. “Will you play for me?”
That gets a laugh. “That right there is a hell no.”
“Aw, come on! Why not?”
“It’s been too long. And I was never as good as Grayson.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Gabby’s Grayson?”
Nash makes a face I can’t quite untangle. “Yeah. Wow. I forget you guys are friends.”
“We really have been circling each other for years, haven’t we?”
That shouldn’t feel as profound as it does, considering life in a small town can be a lot like life in a goldfish bowl. Everyone in Stillwater Bay knows everyone else.
But there’s somethingmoreabout this connection. Something deeper. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.
“So,” I ask, “is it safe to assume you taught Grayson everything he knows about music?”
“Quite the opposite,” Nash says with a self-deprecating laugh. “That kid has real talent. I just made noise.”
He doesn’t say it bitterly, but the words land flat. Familiar. Like he’s heard them one too many times. I wonder, was he the one to say them? Or did they come from someone else?
“But if that noise brought you joy,” I say quietly, then simply extend the guitar out for him with a soft smile.
Nash takes the instrument and huffs out a breath. “You’re dangerous when you’re charming.”
“Only dangerous to nonsense,” I say, thoroughly enjoying the conversation. Trish would have rolled her eyes at me. Dad never would have let me finish the first sentence before steamrolling into a diatribe about his view of the world. Stella would have made a joke. Gabby would have listened, but I’d always wonder if she heard.
Nash feels different. He’s an enigma wrapped in a mystery, never quite responding the way I expect, but always,alwaysmaking me feel safe. Heard.
Taken care of.
