A few months after we’d met, at Christmas, he had gotten a guitar and lessons as his big present. Through the new year and winter, we’d spent countless hours with him picking at chords while I did homework or read. He was determined to learn, as he put it, “showstoppers,” big sing-along performative songs. But the first thing he learned to play all the way through was “You Are My Sunshine.”
It sounded terrible at first. And, honestly, did not improve much before he got too frustrated with how long it was taking to learn, and lost interest. But those few winter days, when he’d pick up the guitar and smile at me: They were the best.
“Play me something,” I’d say.
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.Even when the noteswere clumsy, his voice off-key, my heart would feel like it was growing in my chest, unfolding tendrils and shoots. Our song, just for me. I’d never felt so loved. It was everything.
Bzzzzz.
Ding!
Beep.
“Hey!” Anne said when I came out a few minutes later to join them in the muggy evening. “We lost you.”
“I fell asleep,” I replied as there was another beep. Immediately, she picked up her phone. Meanwhile, Lana, at the bottom of the steps, was studying her screen, while Clark had his own conversation a few feet away. I looked at Ben, who was on the middle step, still strumming. We were the only ones not plugged in.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it eventually,” he said, as if I’d said this aloud.
I watched as Lana typed something, fingers flying. “How long is ‘eventually’?”
He smiled, playing a few more chords. “It does help to have something else to do. You any good at crossword puzzles? Knitting?”
“Those are my options?”
“Well, there’s also obsessing about your problems and those of the world in general,” he replied. “But that gets old fast. Trust me.”
I sat down, pulling my knees to my chest. “I did that even when I had a phone.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to impress me with your multitasking skills?”
“Maybe. Is it working?”
“Totally,” he replied. I felt myself smile again. With him, somehow, I was particularly aware of it.
“Finley.” Anne put her own phone down on the step, giving me a sympathetic look. “Iknowthis is difficult. But like I said, it’s good that you’re incommunicado right now.”
Lana groaned. “Please tell me you’re not talking about that book again.”
“Intrigue breeds attraction! That’s how it works in nature.”
“She got dumped. She’s not a peacock.”
As I winced, Ben gave the guitar one big strum—clang!—like a rim shot. Helpful.
“Not necessarily,” Anne countered. “As I told her, according toWild Love, it’s typical for a suitor to grow distant or even sever ties before making a relationship permanent.”
“Suitor?”
“Partner. Other half. Whatever.”
Just then, I heard gravel crunching. A beat later, as if on cue, a gray 4Runner was bumping into view, a blond guy in a collared golf shirt behind the wheel. Anne jumped to her feet. “And there’s mine!”
With that, she was running barefoot across the grass to jump into his arms. It was like something out of a shampoo ad.
“Hey. Peacock,” Lana said. When I looked at her, she nodded down the hill, toward the water. “Let’s take a walk.”
It was hard not to have a sense of foreboding as I did what she requested. “Areyoubreaking up with me now?”
