“Electric, acoustic, bass, drums, piano… I can play it all.”
“Oh wow.”
“All right, so, let’s practice these chords until you’ve got them down.”
We practice for about an hour, and by the end I’ve finished my glass of whiskey. The sun has set and the sky outside is a dark blue, and the orange of the fire glows on the other side of the room. I close my eyes as Charles plays an A chord correctly, the pressure just slightly off. I’m not having him use a pick yet, just his thumb so he gets used to the chords before mastering both. He’s a good student. I don’t know why that surprises me considering he has to be after all his years playing football.
“You did good,” I praise him, knowing it can be rough at the start. Not everyone has the skill to teach themselves an instrument like I had.
Charles has the audacity to flush at my words. “Thank you. Can you play something for me?”
I frown. “Like what?”
“Anything.”
I hum thoughtfully and absentmindedly strum the strings. I finally land on “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac because it’s one of my favorites and pretty easy to pick once I get going. I don’t sing, because although I’m a gifted guitar player, God doesn’t give with two hands, so I can’t carry any sort of tune. When I finish, I glance up to find Charles staring at me in amazement.
“Jesus, you make it look so easy.”
“I’ve been playing for over twenty years, so itiseasy for me. You’ll get there with time and practice. You didn’t throw touchdowns right out the gate, right?”
“I guess not,” Charles admits with a wry quirk of his lips. “So I was thinking lessons on Tuesdays and Fridays might work?”
“Yeah, works for me, considering Ms. Marcia got me those church service gigs on Wednesday evenings. The Porters also hired me to teach their kids piano, despite me not evenadvertising it.” I pack my guitar away so that I’m not tempted to look at Charles too long. “That’s the thing about growing up somewhere. Everyone knows my story and knows my capabilities. There’s no hiding on Hope Island.”
“You’d want to hide?”
I glance over at Charles to find his mouth turned down, the stubble on his cheeks more pronounced than the day before. He’s so unfairly handsome that I feel a little angry and sick with it.
“I’ve spent my life hiding.”
Charles points at my head. “Hard to hide with a pink buzz cut.”
“Touché.”
We both chuckle.
I grab the guitar case and march toward the door with Charles bringing up the rear. He makes a sound like maybe he’s going to offer to drive me home, which is a colossally bad idea, so I cut it off with “See you on Tuesday!” and stride right out into the evening air. The stars are starting to come out and the frogs are singing in the marsh. With my guitar slung across my back, it feels so familiar that my heart settles yet again. Halfway home, I pause and close my eyes, tilting my head back toward the sky. Everything’s going to be fine.
The house is still lit up inside when I arrive home. I stomp my feet on the mat outside before pushing open the door. Dad turns around from the stove to check that surely it’s his son and not a burglar walking through the front door.
“Just me,” I say with a smile.
“I’m still not used to the hair yet. Is it permanent?”
“Semi.”
Dad smiles. “Ah. You should do orange in September for Halloween.”
“Haha.” I set my guitar down against the kitchen wall, then take a seat at the island. “What are you making?”
“Pop wanted some hot chocolate.”
That tracks. Pop has a sweet tooth the size of Mississippi. Without me even asking, Dad grabs a third mug so that he can pour me some. A few moments later there’s a steaming mug of homemade hot chocolate in front of me. My eyes water at the familiar smell.
“It’s safe for me?”
Dad tuts half-heartedly. “There hasn’t been gluten in this house since you were diagnosed with celiac in high school.”
