I hang on to him for a few more seconds, then I let him go and say, “Follow me.”
We step inside, and I halfway expect to see Mom standing at the kitchen counter, smiling when she sees us. The grief that she’s not is so strong that my chest hurts.
Wesley stares at the kitchen as well, his eyes taking on that same anguished expression he had when he knocked on my window. “I wish I’d seen her before she died.”
“She would have liked that, but she didn’t hold it against you. She loved that you were successful.”
We head down to the basement, and Wesley gasps. “Looks different from when we were kids.”
After Wesley moved away, I spent more time down here than I should have, lying on the couch and staring at where my guitar used to be. Instead of my mother making me come upstairs, she and Dad started to renovate the basement,finishing it so I had a more comfortable place to mourn my best friend.
The walls were finished, insulated so there wasn’t a draft, the floor was done, thick carpet laid so I didn’t catch a cold walking barefoot. They moved the washer and dryer upstairs off the kitchen so I could have a space they wouldn’t intrude on.
I motion for him to sit on the leather couch while I go over to the closet and pull it open, grabbing the acoustic guitar from inside. It’s not like the Fender I gave him, but it was easier for me to learn on.
His eyes grow wide when he sees the instrument, panic flashing over his face. I’m not sure why, but I don’t ask. I sit on the coffee table and start strumming the strings, humming softly. The roles are reversed, him listening to me play for him.
“After you…left, I learned to play the guitar. I’m not as good as you, and the acoustic works better for me rather than electric. Sometimes, I get these tunes in my head, and I’ll play them out. This was one of the first that came to me.” I glance up at him. “I can’t sing like you or even write music, but the melody won’t leave me, so I never forget.”
I strum the song on my guitar, watching as Wesley gradually relaxes.
I’m not sure what lyrics would go along with the slow melody, but every time I play it, it soothes my soul. On days where I feel down or like I don’t want to go on, I play it, and some of the weight is lifted off my shoulders. It was my lifeline after Mom died.
“What’s it called?” Wesley asks as I get to the bridge.
“Lana’s Melody.” I look up at him with a grin. “Not very original, but it was for my mom. She loved it. It was the first song I composed when I got more proficient atplaying. When she died, it helped me get through the loss.” I strum a few more chords, then the song ends on a soft beautiful note. I set the guitar beside me and place my hands in my lap.
“It’s wonderful,” Wesley says, looking off into the distance. “Almost like…play it again for me?” he asks.
Smiling, I grab the guitar and do what he asks, humming along softly.
“You could make bank if you sold that,” he says.
“Nah. It’s not for sale. But thank you.” I hold the guitar out to him. “Would you like to play? I know it’s different than?—”
Wesley shakes his head quickly. “No. No music.”
“Never again?”
He shrugs. “Not right now, at least. I wasn’t…” He glides a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t a good person when I played music. While I was in recovery, I correlated my using with my music. It all came with the lifestyle.”
I nod, even though I don’t really understand what he’s going through. The look of fear makes sense now. “I won’t ask you to play again.”
“Before I went to my m—Suzette’shouse, I saw something that triggered me. I think that’s why I went to that house. My head was already fucked up, and I wasn’t thinking clearly. It was a mistake to go there.”
“Do you want to sell? Demolish it? Burn it to the fucking ground?” I chuckle, but I abruptly cut it off when I catch the serious look on his face. “You can’t burn it down, Wesley. That’s a felony.”
He cracks a small smile. “One could wish. Is it possible to demolish it? I don’t ever want to see that house again.”
“You can do what you want with it,” I say, sitting on thecouch beside him with my body turned in his direction. “It’s yours.”
Wesley exhales slowly. “I don’t want it, but I don’t want to live in a world where it still exists.”
“Okay. I’ll ask my dad what you have to do. He knows all that shit. And if you want, I’ll be there with you every step of the way.”
“Thanks, Jax.” Then surprising me, Wesley lies down in my lap, tucking himself close to me with his eyes closed. “You’ve always been safe. A real friend.”
I smile down at his relaxed face and tentatively push his hair back from his forehead. He sighs in contentment, snuggling closer. I continue to drag my fingers through his hair.
