Kitty was still looking at me hopefully, and I hated that my first reaction was to step back.
“Kitty,” I began, choosing my words carefully, “I told Marjorie I would handle the sound. That’s what I can commit to.”
Her smile faltered. Not dramatic. Just a small dip, like a light being turned down.
“I know,” she said. “I’m grateful for that. I just thought…”
That was the problem. Thinking. Expecting. Imagining me in roles I didn’t want. I heard myself say, “I’m not performing.”
The words landed between us with a sharpness I hadn’t intended. The shop suddenly felt too quiet.
Kitty blinked. “What?”
“I’m not performing,” I repeated, softer, but the damage was already done. “I don’t do that anymore.”
Her cheeks flushed, and she sat up straighter, like embarrassment had pulled a string through her spine. “I didn’t ask you to perform.”
I hesitated. She sounded genuinely offended, and that should have clarified things.
Instead, it made me defensive, which wasn’t fair to her.
“I’m sorry,” I said, but my apology came out stiff. “It’s a talent show with music. I assumed.”
She stared at me for a beat, her hands still on the guitar like she wasn’t sure if she should put it down or keep going. “I was asking for organizing help. For advice, because you know about music.”
I tried to correct course. “If you want advice about managing the schedule and keeping performers moving, I can tell you what usually works.”
The offer sounded reasonable. It also sounded too late.
Kitty nodded, but she did it politely, not enthusiastically. “Okay. That’s fine.”
Fine was never fine.
I shifted my weight, suddenly aware of how easily I had turned something good into something awkward.
“You’re doing well with the guitar,” I said, because it was true and because I needed to give us something neutral to talk about.
She looked down. “Thank you.”
We finished the lesson after that, but the warmth was gone. Kitty still practiced. I still corrected her hand position. We still made progress. It all felt slightly more formal, as if we were both proving we could be adults about it.
When the time was up, she set the guitar down carefully and stood, wincing slightly as her sore body reminded her it existed.
“I’ll see you next week,” I said.
“Yes,” she replied. “Thank you for your time.”
The phrasing was so polite it might as well have been a receipt.
She put on her coat and hat, then paused at the door.
“And thank you for the sound help,” she added, voice gentle. “Marjorie will be relieved.”
“No problem,” I said.
She nodded once, then left.
The bell chimed softly as the door closed, and the shop settled back into silence.
