I lean forward, elbows on knees, hands pressed together till my knuckles turn white. I was right there. I had a shot. I blew it.
My phone lights up. Work. Some bug. Ordinarily, I’d jump all over it, but I ignore it. Code isn’t the answer tonight.
My hand trembles as I unzip my pants. I’m already hard, painfully so. My body’s compensating for what my mouth couldn’t do. I spit into my palm and grip myself too tight at first.
I close my eyes and there she is: Hope behind a mic in her tight black jeans and figure-hugging tank. Hope laughing, Hope’s fingers around a bottle neck when she’s behind the bar glancing past me.
My rhythm is desperate, clumsy. Not how I imagine she’d want to be touched, but I can’t slow down. My breath comes in short gasps as I picture her noticing me. Seeing me. I open myeyes when the tingles in my spine become unbearable and spurt pathetically all over my shirt.
In the window, the sight of my own desperation is reflected back at me. Hunched over, panting. Alone in my half-lit bedroom while she’s probably still commanding the bar and juggling the inquiries of dozens of confident men.
I wipe my hand on my jeans and sit back, disgusted.
This isn’t who I want to be. Not some shadow jerking off to the memory of a woman who doesn’t know I exist. She deserves better. Maybe I do too.
Tomorrow doesn’t look different yet. I make a silent vow that it will.
That gap won’t close on its own. If I want a change, I have to dive in.
All the way.
Next time, I won’t just stand there.
I’ll be someone worth seeing.
four
Later That Night
Thelockclicksbehindme.
Light from the lamp pools across the table. The air is still and my apartment is exactly how I left it, as if the greatest night of my life didn’t even happen.
My keys skid across the counter, knocking into the wall. I stand staring at nothing much longer than I should before managing to move and drop onto the couch.
For a moment, I let the entire evening play back. Zane pulling me from the bar. Strumming the Breedlove in his office. The moment of disbelief and the second where everything settled and I knew I was meant to be there. Chords carrying fartherthan I expected. My voice reaching the back of the room without strain. The way everything held together instead of falling apart.
Of course, there was the reaction of the crowd. People chanting my name. Throughout my bartending shift, dozens of people came up to me wondering where my next gig was.
My eyes shift to the pile on the table and reality pulls me out of it.
Paper stacked unevenly, corners curled, some opened, others waiting their turn. Ugh. The totals sit in my head. Sadly, nothing about tonight erased my goddamn reality.
Across the room, my precious guitar rests near the window, a thin line of streetlight running along its edge.
I pick it up and sit on the floor, back against the couch. The body settles into my lap without adjustment. My hand slides along the side and catches in a shallow dip worn into the finish.
She made it.
Not in one night. Years of it. Evenings stretched across the living room, her foot tapping against the floor, keeping time whether she played or not. She never rushed a song. Let it breathe. Let it find its shape.
I didn’t understand it then, but I do now.
My fingers rest on the strings, waiting. The rhythm shows up before I start, steady, familiar, already there under everything else. She used to tap it into the wood when I drifted. Two fingers, same spot every time.
I tap it once, without thinking, and start to play. Conjure up the memory of her and the last time she held this guitar.
We were in her room with the curtains drawn halfway because the light hurt her eyes. Her fingers moved slower, each note placed instead of flowing through her soul.
