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I meet his steady gaze, and my heart flutters. Stupid organ. I open my mouth, and then snap it shut, not sure if I want to touch that landmine of a comment.

“I’m sorry, Reese.” It’s barely a whisper, but the words wrap around every fiber of my being, tightening around my heart, my lungs. How many nights have I spent wondering how I’d feel if he ever said those words to me? Too many. And not once, did I imagine I’d feel the urge to touch him, to reach out for him. But, I so want to. “I made so many mistakes,” he adds. He lifts his hand, and brushes his calloused fingers along my jaw, over my cheekbone, leaving heat in their wake. “Think you can ever forgive me?” I’ve thought about that too, but rather than expose myself, my vulnerability where he’s concerned, I give him a part-truth. “I guess I have to. We’re raising a baby together.” I give him a lopsided grin. His chest heaves as he exhales. “That’s not the only reason, and you know it. You could never lie to me, Reese.”

“Maybe,” I admit. “But that’s all I’m ready to give you.”

He wants to say more, but he’s interrupted when Fletch slaps him on the shoulder from behind, and I jump. For such a big guy, he moves like fucking smoke.

“Yo, you got a guitar lyin’ around?” He asks. He gives me a warm smile, and a wink. For some reason, it makes me blush. I’m not used to being around these guys as they are now, I keep expecting them to revert back to their old dick-head ways.

“The fuck we need a guitar for?” Thorin asks, annoyed. Fletch doesn’t care though, he just forges on like he’s used to the ornery side of his band-mate. “Because we’re celebrating, asshole, and that means music.”

“Everything’s at your house,” Thorin tells him.

“Actually,” I look up at Fletch, “I have a guitar inside, but it’s an acoustic.”

“Fuck yeah!” He yells.

Thorin frowns at me, but I’m up, and walking towards my house before he can ask questions. When I walk back out, everyone is congregated around the pit, and it’s Thorin who stops short when he sees what’s in my hand.

“Is that…”

“Yeah.” I smile.

“You kept it?”

Benji and Fletch walk closer, and you’d swear I’m holding the holy grail of acoustic guitars, or something. “Is that a…” Benji trails off.

“A Gibson Southern Jumbo 1964 Sunburst,” I finish. “This was Thorin’s first guitar.”

He clears his throat. “My dad gave that to me on my sixteenth birthday, belonged to my dad, and his dad before that. You kept it?”

I shrug. “Couldn’t part with it.” I leave out the part about how it went with me to college. Nobody needs to know that.

“Can you play it?” Fletch asks.

“She can,” Thorin answers for me, his expression indecipherable. “Taught her myself.”

“Well, damn,” Benji rubs at the scruff covering his jaw. “I need to hear this.”

“No, I don’t—”

I get a chorus of “come on, just one song” followed by, “Reese! Reese! Reese!”

There are only four people who’ve ever heard me play—and sing— and two of them are gone. That leaves Maggie, and Thorin, and with my luck, Thorin is going to—

“She can sing too.” Tell them I can sing. Dangit.

“Okay, now you have no choice, Reese.” Fletch grins, and pats a log.

I shoot Thorin a glare, and the bastard smirks. I take a seat, settle the guitar, and tune the strings. I’m aware that everyone is watching, but as I caress the neck, the round curves of the body, touch a string or two, the nerves in my belly take flight, their wings growing bigger and bigger.

“What should I sing?” I ask Thorin. “I don’t know any of your songs.”

I get a collective “ooh, that hurts” from Fletch, Carson and Benji, but ignore them. Thorin shakes his head, and drops onto the sofa. “Your choice.”

I search the deepest recesses of my mind, trying to think of a song, and it’s harder than it seems. Not because I have an audience, though. Do I choose a song we wrote together as kids, before it all fell apart, or do I sing something I wrote when I needed an outlet in college? The latter are mostly about Thorin, of course; about an unrequited young love, a betrayal, and the decision to move on from him. A desire to have him be nothing more than a memory.

“Anyone got a pick?” I ask, looking around. Benji reaches into his jean pocket, and tosses me his. I exhale, focusing on the strings, their sound, the weight of the body on my thigh, the feel of the neck in my hand—hello, old friend. I pick at a few chords, making sure I have the sound right. I’m a little rusty, and hello! I’m surrounded by one of worlds most famous rock bands. Yikes.