With a short nod, he shifts beside me, eyes deep in thought. “Do you know ‘Trace of You’ by Peter Bradley Adams?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“It’s not widely known. Came up on a suggested playlist a few weeks ago, and I had to learn it. It’s simple…but it’s the kind of song that stays with you.” A steady look. “You know?”
Of course I know; my heart is a playlist. “Yes.”
He clears his throat, falters briefly. Almost like the song scares him or intimidates him in some strange way. I brace myself for the lyrics, for the pieces that spoke to him, wondering how they’ll speak to me.
Chase swallows and lets out a breath. Then his voice wraps around me in velvet and smoke, softer than usual, but no less alive. His fingers find the chords with practiced finesse, but there’s nothing practiced about the way he sings. It’s raw and real. Soul deep.
The air stills.
I hear the ache in his voice before I register the words. Grief wrapped in longing. Someone chasing ghosts. It’s not a performance.
It’s a confession.
And suddenly, I do know the song.
But not from playlists. Not because I’ve heard it before.
I know it because I know him.
My throat locks with sentiment. A gritty, painful chokehold. Lyrics flow through me, moving like thick molasses, catching in too-tight places.
Don’t cry.
Please don’t cry.
Stinging pressure builds behind my eyes. I clench my hands in my lap, begging them not to reach for him. The diamond on my finger glints under the lights, reminding me. Scolding me. It’s supposed to be a promise, but it feels like a weight.
I cover it with my palm, hiding it away.
The lyrics cleave holes in me. His voice winds through my veins, rewriting my blood.
I love this song.
I hate this song.
Bowing my head, I close my eyes and just wait for it to be over.
And when it is, I want more.
“Here,” Chase says, his voice a pitch-perfect note through the murky static. “Try it out.”
I force my eyes back open, lashes damp and fluttering. “What?”
“The guitar.”
When I finally look at him, he’s handing it over to me. A mass of gorgeous, polished wood. Too breakable for my unsteady hands.
I shake my head slightly.
“Have you ever played?”
“Once,” I whisper. “A little. Tag tried to teach me, but I wasn’t any good. It doesn’t come naturally.”
“Just takes practice. I can teach you.”
