“Why?”
“Pretty sure you know why, Catherine.”
Time stretches between us while we stare into each other’s eyes as if we’re the only people in the room, not surrounded by dozens of patrons waiting for Grüsh to go to the mic.
When enough beats of silence pass without a word leaving my lips, he sighs and drops my hand. “If you want me to sit onthat stool, play a couple of fan favorites, then leave your bar and this town, that’s what I’ll do.”
This is a moment I never saw coming. If I let Grüsh sing something he wrote for me, I might as well serve up the heart I’ve spent years mending on a silver platter. Even if he doesn’t mean to break it again, it’ll happen. How could it not?
“Play the song. I want to hear it.”
With a nod, he turns and strides to the stage.
There are significantly more people in the bar now, probably the result of excited texts and calls from the original group while Grüsh and I were talking. It’s not wall-to-wall bodies, but it’s getting there because people continue trickling in steadily enough that the main door never fully closes.
Everyone is either clapping, whistling, or making some other type of appreciate noise as Grüsh settles on the worn wooden stool and adjusts the microphone to his level.
“Thanks for the warm welcome. It’s good to be back in Harmony Glen. I’ve been away too long. Didn’t realize how much I missed it until I got here.”
Are they just polite words to please the hometown fans? My heart wants to think they’re more, that he’s being truthful, and that it’s not merely the town he realized he missed.
“I’m sure you’ve got a lineup for the mic, so I’ll just play a couple songs, then turn it over to the next talented local.”
“Play all night!” someone hollers.
The other patrons show their agreement with claps and whistles.
Grüsh’s deep chuckle travels through the mic to the speakers, then straight to my barely protected heart.
“This first song is something I’ve been working on. A story, like most of them are, but a bit of a detour from my usual style.” He surveys the audience, nodding and smiling as he connectswith them, then he looks over them, at me, where I’m standing behind the bar. “I hope it hits the right notes for you.”
The crowd quiets as he strums. The intro is soft but has depth, even without lyrics. By the time the first line leaves his mouth, my heart is already beating faster.
And as he sings the last line in his deep, smooth voice, my throat feels closed up and my heart is trying to hammer its way out of my chest.
That was a love song, but more than that. A story of lessons learned, both good and bad. Of regrets and realizations. Of dreams, past, present, and future. An apology without using the wordsI’m sorry.
He strums the last chord, the room giving his beautiful song its due. No whooping or whistling, just strong, steady applause that goes on for a solid fifteen seconds. And in those seconds, his focus rests solely on me. His dark eyes hold my gaze as if waiting for my answer to an unasked question.
So I nod. Smile. Tap my chest in the area of my heart. Three quick, small gestures, but they’re enough.
He dips his head once, then turns his attention to the waiting audience. “All right, now it’s your turn to choose the song. What do you want to hear?”
That’s all it takes for the volume in the bar to skyrocket. Grüsh and his band have had a lot of hits, and the bar is full of people calling out their favorite song titles.
Grüsh has become noticeably less involved with fans in the past few years, but here, now, he’s the old version of himself. The big green troll who’d been forced to live in secret, dreaming of a life as a professional musician who could go anywhere, play for everyone, never thinking it’d be a possibility. In the early years of his success, his excitement and gratitude shone through in every performance, interview, and picture taken with fans. Thenit dimmed, like a light being turned down so slowly it’s barely noticeable while it’s happening.
But I noticed.
“You know him from when he lived here, don’t you?” Jane says, moving to stand beside me after her last customer walks away from the bar.
Nobody cares about getting drinks while an actual rock star is performing a live acoustic version of a song that went multi-Platinum.
“I do, yes.” I busy myself with wiping down the bar, but the weight of Jane’s stare is almost palpable, and heat climbs up my neck to my cheeks despite my attempt to appear composed as always.
Her sharp intake of breath is very audible. “Holy crap. Youknow him, know him.”
“What?” I choose acting affronted rather than lying because there’s not a chance in hell I’m confirming.
