These are the moments I wish I could play.
I’ve never bothered to learn guitar. My favorite instrument is my voice.
Inhaling a breath, I let the song flow through me, melancholy lyrics spilling free when the guys reach the first bridge.
Chase lifts his head, pulling his attention off the guitar and slowly panninghis gaze toward me. He watches me sing. Neither of us misses a beat as our eyes hold, the room dissolving around us, only plinking strings and moody notes piercing the heavy air.
The three of us move on to a new song. Tag’s voice grows louder, fusing with mine. His isn’t as clean. It’s raspy and flawed, a contrasting balance. Our harmonies blend in imperfect unison as Chase continues to weave chords into a spell.
We run through one more classic, a poignant feeling in my gut, swirling and spinning.
When the guitars grow quiet and last notes fade, I can’t stop the giddy grin from spreading across my face. “Hello, magic.”
My brother refuses to acknowledge it. He looks over at Chase, his eyes less wary but still dubious. “Do you sing?”
Chase finally pulls his focus off me, a slow-motion withdrawal. “I mostly just play.”
“Why don’t you sing?” I inch forward on the couch until our knees touch. “I’d love to hear you.”
“Maybe another time.”
I study him, the way his body tenses, his leg bobbing again. Something tells me it’s more than nerves. “Okay. I get it.”
“Gonna make some food,” Tag says, standing from the couch and discarding his guitar. “Want anything?”
He addresses me only; I decline.
As the sound of footsteps taper off, I swivel toward Chase, the energy in the room still palpable, frenetic. His gaze glows with renewed passion, a luster I haven’t seen yet. He’s always looked so jaded and locked away. The metal bars over his eyes begin to disintegrate.
“What are you even doing?” I murmur, my voice barely reaching a whisper. His puzzled expression makes me realize I’ve given him no context. I shake my head. “I mean, with your life. With everything. You have so much talent…the way you play, the guitars you’ve built. If you can sing even half as well as you—”
“I can’t.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He shifts, uneasy. Not because of me, but because of what I’m saying.Because of everything he’s not reaching for. If it were me, I’d chase it until my legs gave out. Run like I was on fire and never stop, not until I burned. Burned alive or burned bright. Either way, it would be worth it.
Chase presses his elbows to his thighs and looks down at the floor. “And you?”
“What about me?”
He reaches for the notebook resting between us and starts thumbing through the pages. Settling on a page featuring a recent poem, I watch his eyes scan the smudged ink, the random doodles, the little pieces of my heart wrapped up in em dashes, dottedi’s, and metaphors.
I’m no good with numbers, but I can measure the weight of empty pages
I can count the beats between heartache and hope
One, two, three
The bridge between what is and what could be
His eyes lift, embers igniting among the golden flecks. “If we’re on the topic of untapped potential, I have a few thoughts I can add.”
I scoff, snatching the notebook from his grip. “That’s different. I can carry a tune and write haikus. Not exactly a recipe for a lifelong career.”
“Says who? You?” His eyes are heavy. “Who are you to stand in the way of your own dreams?”
His words rattle me.
