“Oh, no, that’s okay,” I say quickly. “I don’t want to be a bother—”
“It’s no bother.” He perches on one of the stools on stage. Even seated, there’s a careless sort of confidence in the way he sprawls, feet braced wide on the stool rungs. “I didn’t realise you play guitar. Did you bring it over from Australia?”
“I did.”
“Brilliant. A musician at heart.”
Despite not knowing anything about me, he says it with such genuine feeling that I’m touched.
Yes. I am a musician.Obvious, really. But hearing a stranger state it is strangely validating.
“Thank you,” I say. “And thanks for offering to change my string, but please don’t worry about it. I can—”
“Relax. I’ve got it. What do you play?”
“A Cole Clark Angel 2. It’s a semi-acoustic, similar to yours.”
I eye his Gibson, the wood stained bright red at the edges, the sides wine-dark.
“This?” He raps a rhythm on the body with his knuckles. “It’s a 1965 Hummingbird in sunburst cherry—my uncle’s pride and joy.”
“Oh wow. That was Dustin’s?”
He hesitates, so imperceptible I nearly miss it. “Sadly, no. Only because we had that auctioned off for charity. But this is the exact same model. He played it once, actually.”
“It’s beautiful.”
He beams. “Cheers. So, which string do you need?”
“A high E for an acoustic. Twelve gauge.”
“That’s easy. I can definitely give you a spare.”
I blink. “Really?”
“Yep. We’ve got heaps. It never hurts to be prepared when you’ve got musicians booked and people expecting a show.”
“He’s always bailing some poor newbie out,” Daisy chimes from behind the counter.
“Like the time you lost your drumsticks?” Willoughby calls back.
“I didn’tlosethem, okay? Someone pinched them!”
“Yeah, yeah.”
His smile spreads, lazy and lopsided, and he plays a few notes on his guitar, his curly hair swinging forward in slow motion as his head dips. He tweaks the tuning peg, then he glances up at me. “Bring your guitar by later, and I’ll fix it up for you.”
I’m tempted to accept. But that would mean lugging my guitar to the café. Not that it’s a long walk, but still, I’m more than capable of changing a guitar string. “Could I just pay you for the string instead?”
“Sure,” he replies. “If you’ve got the tools to change it.”
Right. Tools. I removed them from my case for the flight and had optimistically chose not to pack them in my checked luggage.
“You’re not in Kansas anymore, Lily.”Toby’s voice cuts through my head, sharp and unwelcome. I wince and shove it to the back. All I need at the bare minimum is my phone’s tuning app and some wire cutters.
“I’ll manage,” I tell Willoughby. “My friend can probably lend me what I need.”
“Is that the friend you’re staying with?”
