“Let’s play some guitar.” Tucker fills his bowl with water in the sink while looking at me over his shoulder. “Did you practice?”
“I did. I can play all of ‘American Pie’ now and even tried some strumming.”
“Overachiever,” Tucker mumbles under his breath, but loud enough so I can clearly hear.
“Hey! I’m a good student.”
“Sure.”
Tucker’s muscles flex under his shirt as he walks toward the living room, guitar case in his hand. Another flash of lightning, followed quickly by a crack. The storm must beright over us now. The rain pelts the roof with heavy droplets, the sound echoing around the house, until Tucker strums his guitar and the sound overwhelms me. I distantly recognize the song as a deep Nolan Hastings cut. One of my favorite songs from hisBeautiful Thingsalbum. He’d made it in the midst of his depression, the words full of fear and anxiety.
Tucker hums along but I know the words, so I sing them, surprising Tucker enough so he pauses before picking back up again.
Flowerson my ribs
Rot in my brain
Not sure I’ll make it out again
Even with you on my mind
I’ve seen somany places
Heard so many voices
But your eyes are the best sight
Best sight I’ve ever seen
Won’t you love me always
Won’t you love me true
I only ever want to be seen, seen by you
Tucker finishesthe song without my joining in, and we mutually agree through silence to not address the song at all. I tug out my guitar and play through “American Pie” a couple of times, doing my best to strum. Tucker watches on like the patient teacher he is and leans forward once I’m done, fingerswrapping around my right wrist to show me the right way to strum.
“Strumming patterns come to you as you listen to the song. You’ll know, but ‘American Pie’ has one of the easiest strumming patterns ever. Just a basic up and down, pretty fast. Try it like this,” Tucker says, moving my wrist to get the right strumming pattern. It takes me a few tries, but I kind of get it by the end. Mastering strumming while playing chords will take some time. Probably easier for me than others considering my athletic nature though. “There you go. See? Not so hard.”
“Says the guitarist who played with Nolan Hastings.”
Tucker hums thoughtfully. “Once you get this down, we can move toward integrating some harder chords into the rotation. Bar chords will be a bit of a challenge.”
“I’ll try really hard,” I promise with a teasing smile.
Tucker clucks his tongue. “Maybe one day we’ll be able to play together.”
“That’d be fun.”
“No ‘Freebird’ though. I draw the line with that one.”
“Understood.”
Tucker packs up his guitar, stands, and throws his guitar bag over his shoulder, only remembering he’s wearing my clothes when he makes it to the front door. He aims a look at me over his shoulder that would make weaker men go to war but just makes me wish to tug him close and feel his breath on my neck.
“I’ll give you the clothes back tomorrow.”
“It’s still raining,” I say as Tucker opens the door and steps outside. The rain lightens when he steps outside as if by magic, as if maybe he knew. “Well, I’ll be.”
