I shift uncomfortably. “Uh, no.”
“Liar.”
I pull at my top. “Not really.”
“Why are you being so weird?”
“I’m not being weird.”
“Yes, you are.” She swings her legs off my lap and pads across the room. Swinging the guitar into her hands like it’s no big deal, like it’s not a momentous obstacle to overcome. She hands it to me. “Play me something.”
“I can’t.”
“Fine, I’ll play it.”
She settles in next to me and my chest eases.
Anya fiddles with it in her lap, situating it across her thighs. She clears her throat dramatically before playing a very out of tune rendition of the opening chords of Deep Purple’s Smoke On The Water. Her triumphant grin when she finishes causes laughter to bubble in my chest.
“And that’s all I got,” she laughs, before handing it to me again. “Come on, your turn.”
Suddenly, the weight of the instrument is in my hands. It’s not as heavy as it should be. It settles in my arms like an old friend. I fiddle with the tuning pegs for too long. Anya settles into the arm of the couch, giving me her full attention.
I don’t speak, scared the words that fall out of my mouth will be another refusal.
Nerves flutter in my stomach but my fingers tease the strings, until I’m playing a timid rendition of Paolo Nutini’sBetter Man. It was one of the first songs I taught myself, watching tutorials online and practicing until calluses appeared on my fingers. It feels right that that was the first song I played for myself and it’s the first one I’m playing for her. The lyrics tumble through my head, but I don’t dare voice them.
It’s only when I reach the final verse that I quietly start to sing the words. My voice is raspy, unused after so long, but as the lyrics fall out of my mouth, I feel something in my chest wake up.
The song ends and I finally dare a glance at Anya. She beams at me. “How long have you had that in your back pocket?”
I huff a laugh. “Uh.”
“Play me another one.”
“I haven’t played in a while.”
“How long is a while?”
“About ten years.”
She tilts her head. “Why?”
I shift awkwardly, but tighten my grip on the guitar. “My father didn’t like it.”
I almost expect to see sympathy dance across her face, instead it’s anger that scrunches her eyebrows together. “Y’know, the more I learn about your dad the more I think he’s a giant dick.”
I laugh. Anya rises to her knees and crawls towards me, pressing a gentle kiss to my lips.
“Play me another.”
So I do.
Chapter 25
ANYA
It’s easy to forget my concerns about the quasi-situationship we’ve stumbled into. The shoot days are long. By the end of the day, it’s easy for Danny to follow me into my apartment and collapse into bed.
