“May I?” Brandon asks, holding out his hand.
I hesitate, then pass him the guitar, trying not to show how much the snapped string bothers me. He inspects the damage with quiet focus, his thumbs brushing the fretboard.
Then, without a word, he tucks the broken ends of the string out of the way and shifts the guitar into his lap, his hands moving with unexpected ease as he retunes the ones that remain.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
A wry smile tugs at his lips. “Adjusting for damage.”
When I continue to stare at him, puzzled, he adds, “We’re not aiming for perfection, remember?”
He begins to play, coaxing out a bossa nova tune, mellow and earthy without the high E. I sit back, astonished, as his fingers move with a fluid, lazy elegance, gentle and unhurried like the waves lapping at the shore.
I shake my head. “Wow. Thisis what you meant by ‘sort of’ when I asked you if you play?”
“Well. I dabble in a few instruments.”
“This is dabbling?”
“Nowhere near your calibre.”
His words snag. Assured, as if he’s heard me play before. “How do you know what my calibre is?”
“Your father once showed me a video of you playing at a high school concert.”
My eyes widen. “No. He didn’t.”
“He did. You playedRecuerdos de la Alhambra.”
“Oh no.”
He chuckles. “Why ‘oh no’? You were brilliant, as I recall.”
“I should have chosen something easier. I made so many mistakes.”
“That doesn’t matter. It was beautiful to hear—even on your father’s flip phone.”
That draws a smile from me as I remember the old flip phone. The videos were of poor quality, and Ellenor begged him to get a new one.
“Let’s try another.” Brandon starts a new song, his energy catching me off-guard. The opening bars are off-kilter, jaunty, slightly ridiculous—the melody unmistakable.
I gape. “Is that—?”
“He’s a Pirate,” he confirms solemnly, fingers dancing over the strings.
FromPirates of the Caribbean.
The absurdity cracks something open within me, and before I can stop it, a laugh bursts from my throat, high and shaky and full of feeling. “I thought you were going to play something serious!”
“Serious?”
“Something…profound. Like, classical.”
“Oh no,” he says, still plucking at strings. “No, no, no. Profound is overrated.”
He grins easily—so different to the tiny, restrained smiles. Heat unfurls under my skin and I look away, hoping he hasn’t noticed how easily he disarms me.
Eventually, the melody transitions to something more peaceful and calming.
