“Hurts a little, but I’ll get used to it.” I hold out my hand for him to inspect and bite the inside of my cheek when he takes my hand in his own. He flips it over, inspecting my palm and the tips of my fingers. “See?”
Tucker drops my hand like he’s been burned. “Yeah, you’re good. One of the easiest songs to play and master strumming is ‘American Pie.’ Do you know that song?”
“Probably if I heard it.”
“I’ll show you,” Tucker says while grabbing his guitar. He sets it carefully on his lap, then starts to play. And I was right. The song is easy to recognize. One of those classic songs that most people know. Tucker plays like he’s been playing his entire life, shoulders loose, fingers confident as he expertly plays each chord and strums each verse. “Very easy. Now, to start out, it’s easier to play with what we call tab.”
Tucker pulls out a few pages of paper, placing them in front of me on the couch. He points at the page that contains the lyrics and letters above them. “This tells you the chords to play and with which word, so you keep the beat and melody. You can learn to read music later on, if you want, but to be an expert player, you don’t really have to read music.”
“Do you?”
Tucker looks confused. “Do I what?”
“Do you read music?”
“Well, yes, but I play piano, so it’s a requirement.”
“Gotcha.”
“Now, I want you to practice this for an hour every night. Minimum. Practice playing the chords as you sing, not somuch on strumming. Then once you have that down, we’ll move into strumming. Okay?”
“Yep.”
“Go ahead now.”
I stumble through it the first few times, but it gets easier as I go on. Tucker is a great teacher. He shows me how to do the next step, but doesn’t do it for me, and he also doesn’t get frustrated when I fumble. By the time the hour session is over, I’m easily playing through the entire song. I’m actually excited to give strumming a shot on my own the next few nights.
Tucker’s stomach growls as we’re packing up, and he looks away in embarrassment.I thought he said he ate?
“I have leftovers if you’re hungry.”
“I can’t. I have allergies that make it hard to eat what others cook.”
“Oh,” I say stupidly. “What allergies?”
Tucker looks frustrated and wary as he stands with his guitar slung over his shoulder. “I have celiac disease. It makes eating what others cook difficult.”
I knew his parents cooked gluten-free, and they’d mentioned it was for their son but never said why. I’ve never heard of celiac disease, and I’m sure if I pressed, Tucker would stumble through explaining it to me. But he looks really uncomfortable, so I don’t press. Instead, I walk him to the door and watch him walk out into the night without another word. Cupcake stands beside me, head cocked to the side like she’s thinking the same thing, that Tucker doesn’t need to be pressed. I head into the kitchen to grab a beer.
With the beer in my hand, I take a sip and lean against the counter as I research celiac disease. Damn. Well, that’s an easy fix. I spend the rest of the evening ordering new pans and cooking utensils, then I scour my fridge and pantry for itemsthat might contain gluten. That shit is in everything. I had a teammate who went vegan for a season, and suddenly I have an understanding of just how hard that must’ve been. Going gluten-free for a while will be a nice little experiment to better understand what Tucker might go through on a daily basis. I mean, it’s a small change, and if it’ll make him feel more comfortable, it’s not a hard task.
Me:Can I come over and work on a car with you?
Brent: Sure, son. Stop by whenever.
I pauseand wonder if I should ask about Tucker. But Brent seems to read my mind when he replies:
Brent:Tucker is on the mainland tonight for that church service
Right.I change into outside clothes, walk Cupcake quickly, and get her comfortable in the living room before heading out. It’s the end of August now and the days are getting cooler. I much prefer the cooler South Carolina days to the ones I grew up with in Nebraska. There’s nothing like a fucking Nebraska winter, freezing your ass off and stuck inside with people who would hate your existence if they really knew you.
Because I’m having an off day with my knee, I drive over to Brent and Mark’s house instead of making the walk likeTucker does most nights. Their house is so cute, smaller than mine, more of a cottage than a full-fledged beach mansion, but it gives me all those cozy feelings that a house should inspire in someone.
Brent meanders out of the garage with his hand shielding his eyes at the sound of my truck parking in their driveway. His smile is kind and warm under his wild beard. He gives me a tight, back-slapping hug that I return with a bashful smile.
“I’m working on the Cutlass today. Let me put your younger, better hands to use?” Brent asks with a twinkle in his gaze.
I wave my hands around dramatically. “Not insured anymore, so have at them.”
