I hook my index finger under her chin, pulling her gaze up to mine. “You already are.”
* * *
We settleonthe beach ten minutes later, spreading out big blankets for the kids and positioning our chairs in a circle. It’s only 8:00. We still have another hour before fireworks start, but I’m told the beach gets crowded, so we stake out our spots. I sit in my chair at the end, watching as Danny, Kristen, Jack, and Steph try to finagle their kids into sunset photos at the shoreline. Most of the kids are grumbling but it still tugs at something deep inside my chest. A longing for family. I remember watching fireworks from the beach with my parents and Cara, adorned in glow necklaces and holding sparklers while we waited for the big show.
“I should call my parents.” I don’t mean to say it aloud, but it prompts a concerned look from Melanie, who is sitting next to me, looking at Sophie and Liam’s little girls with awe.
She cups her hand around my kneecap and squeezes. “Maybe you should.”
I don’t reply. Instead, I let my mind go back to the last Fourth of July I remember with my parents and Cara. We must’ve been fourteen or fifteen—before we were too cool to watch the fireworks with our parents. I remember having my guitar down here, my mom and sister sprawled out on a blanket, snacking and making requests. My dad and I leading the sing-along. My chest constricts. I was not prepared for the emotions of being back here. I threw myself into the ocean of memories with no life preserver and now I suddenly feel as if I’m drowning in grief. The beach is starting to fill up and I am lost in thought when Melanie passes me my guitar. “Play us something patriotic,” she suggests. The look in her eyes tells me she knows it’ll make me feel better—the music always does.
I take the guitar from her and give her a sidelong glance before swallowing hard. “Will you sing along?” I ask, my voice thick with emotion.
“If you want me to.” Melanie pats my forearm. She must sense that I went someplace else for a minute.
I unzip my guitar from its case and start strumming “America, the Beautiful.” Before I’ve even realized, Melanie’s angelic voice fills the space around us. Our friends stop what they’re doing and turn their attention to us. Before long, others start singing along and my whole body fills with warmth. For so long, I’ve been missing this feeling of home—of comfort.
I don’t speak when the song finishes, instead I begin playing “I’m Proud to be an American,” and it amps up even more people around us. Even strangers scoot closer to hear us better and join in the sing-along. Liam and Jack light sparklers and pass them around to everyone. The feeling of camaraderie that I have lacked for so long envelops me until a knot of emotions forms in my throat and I have to stop singing. I strum along, my eyes scanning the crowd of strangers and friends alike, singing together, and I realize in this moment—thisis what it’s about. Not playing sold out arenas. There’s a place for that, sure, but I came here looking for something life-affirming and dare I say, at this moment on this beach, I’ve found it.
When I finish the last verse, the crowd erupts into happy cheers that are quickly interrupted by a few test fireworks shooting into the air with a high-pitched whistle. I gently lay my guitar back in its case, and I’m settling into my chair when someone taps my shoulder.
“E-excuse,” a young voice says carefully. “Are you—are you Josh Cote?”
I turn to see a boy, not more than ten, shifting from foot to foot like he’d rather the ocean swallow him whole, his hands twisting in the hem of his T-shirt.
“I sure am.” I grin. “Would you like a picture?”
The boy shrugs, his eyes darting away before flicking back to mine. “I don’t have a phone. I was just wondering if I could ask a question.” He pauses, swallowing hard, and I nod.
The boy sucks in a shaky breath. “How did you get your guitar to sound like that on ‘Fell Too Far’? I’m learning it now and I can’t get it right.”
In the song he’s referring to, I emulate the sound of a pedal steel guitar by holding down two strings together. I crack a smile. This issonot what I expected this kid to say. I expected him to ask me something silly about my personal life. Here he is asking me to show him something. I kneel down and pick up my guitar.
“You mean the pedal steel sound?” I ask, balancing the guitar on my knee.
“Yeah. How do you do that?” The kid cocks his head sideways at me. I take a second to marvel at his courage, approaching me with a technical question simply because he saw his chance.
“Like this.” I show him. “I place my index finger on the B string, on the 7thfret and my ring finger on the G string on the 8thfret. Then I pick both strings together, bending the B string up and holding the G string steady.”
“So cool,” the boy muses.
“Want to try?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow.
“Try? Try your guitar?” The boy can’t hide his excited disbelief.
“Sure.” I pass my ax to him. “Do what I just did. Index finger on the B on the 7th, good.” I watch as the boy moves his ring finger to the 8thfret, G string without direction. He mimics the exact sound I made moments ago.
“Whoa. Cool.” His grin is infectious. “Thank you so much!”
I laugh. “Don’t mention it, kid. What’s your name?”
He passes the guitar back to me. “Carter. I can’t believe I just played Josh Cote’s guitar.”
“Believe it.” I chuckle. “And I’m playing at Fin’s every Wednesday now. Come play a song with me one of these nights.”
“Seriously?” Carter gasps. “I’ll ask my mom.”
I laugh. “All right. That sounds good.” I turn to Melanie. “Mel, can you snap a photo of us?”
