I nod, reaching for his hand and pulling him onto the bike. Wrapping my arms around his torso, and pressing my cheek to his back, I murmur, “I promise you, Evan. But how about, instead of strip bingo, we take rides out to go get ice cream with one another? Even if it’s on one of those Harley trikes, instead of a bike.”
“I like the sound of that,” he replies, reminding me to put the helmet on.
I stuff it right back in the saddlebag, shaking my head. “Feeling a little reckless today,” I tell him, trusting this man with my wholeheart to get me wherever we’re going safely. “Think I’ll skip it. Also, as delightful as sitting on your face sounds, I’m actually starving. Can we go out to eat?”
“A date it is, then.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Brooks had mentioned, a while ago, that he wanted to hear me play the guitar, so it seems only logical that I bring him to Spinelli’s for our date. The local Italian bistro, which overlooks the harbor, hosts live musicians every summer Saturday night on the patio. Luckily for me, today is Saturday, and there’s an acoustic guitar at the edge of the stage.
After we’re seated, I take a quick detour on my fake trip to the restroom, to ask Antonio Spinelli if I can borrow his stage just for a quick song—one I’ve been writing in my head for a while now.
“Sure thing, Evan,” Antonio tells me, clapping my shoulder. “Oh, and hey, your meal’s on the house tonight. You and your man order whatever you want. I know coming out wasn’t easy for you yesterday, but I want you to know that Natalia and I, we’re allies. Always have been. Sucks we had our Pride flag ripped down, when all we wanted to do was support our son. Funny, the proud parents of a soldier flagremained hanging, so we were allowed to be proud ofthat, but not about him being gay,” he huffs.
“Well, thank you, sir. I appreciate it. You don’t have to do that, though.”
“You’re brave. Consider tonight our thankfulness that you spoke up. That takes guts, you know? Now go,” he says, shooing me away. “Order up, andmangia, mangia!”
I give him an appreciative nod and return to the table, where Brooks is gazing out over the water.
He tips his glass up, taking a sip of water from it, and then raises an eyebrow up at me. “How was your trip to the bathroom? Everything come out alright?” he asks, skepticism in his voice.
“Fine?” I retort, confused. “Why the sudden concern about how I urinate?”
“Oh, I’m not worried about that. I’m just wondering why, if the bathrooms are that way”—he points—“you went the other way. What are you up to now?” He narrows his eyes at me.
I smirk. “Busted. You wanted to see me play guitar, right?” My eyes dart over to the guitar on the stand.
I go to stand again, and he reaches out and grabs my wrist. “Evan! What are you doing? You’re going to play now?Here? In front of everyone?” His eyes flick around the crowded restaurant. Both inside and out are full. I’m surprised we managed to get in without reservations, honestly.
“Mhm,” I hum, “in front of everyone. Hope that, since you’re a Garth Brooks fan, you like country.” I wink at him.
I make my way over to the stool and situate the mic stand in front of me. I grab the guitar, rest it on my lap, and give it a quick tune. Then, I clear my throat. “Uh, hey—hi,” I speak into the mic, which squawks a little. I feel the weight of nearly everyone’s eyes on me suddenly, andI gulp. “I know I’m not the band you planned to see tonight, but I hope you don’t mind me playing a little ditty regardless. This is a song I wrote myself, so bear with me. It’s called ‘You Are My Compass.’ This is for you, Brooks, because youaremy compass.”
His cheeks get pink when the audience spins to look at who I’m dedicating the song to. He gives everyone a shy little wave. Then, as I start strumming, attention falls back on me.
I play a few chords, and then start to sing. The lyrics come out choppy at first, because I’ve never sung for anyone before, much less in front of a crowd—a small crowd, but a crowd nonetheless.
I was drifting, lost at sea,
Caught in storms inside of me.
Every star just led me wrong,
I forgot where I belonged.
Then your voice cut through the haze,
Like a lighthouse in the waves.
You reached out and pulled me close,
Now I’m finally headed home.
Tears well in my eyes, as I begin to belt out the chorus. My fingers go from dancing along the strings, to strumming with more intensity.
You’re my compass, when I’m torn,
