“Oh,don’t worry about that,” I said, not wanting to mention the savings account myparents and I had been working on for years. “I have the money, or Iwillwhen this happens, and it’s going to be awesome. I want it to be a hangout forcreative misfits and guys who think they’re the love child of Kurt Cobain andJohn Mayer.”
“Hey,fuck you!” he shouted around a throaty laugh.
“Inever said it was abadthing,” I defended. “Anyway, that’s what I’mgoing to do, and I want you there.”
“Well,let’s hope you pull it off,” he said, nodding. “because you know I’d be thereevery single day.”
Ididn’t doubt it.
?
Wepulled into the parking lot of the Mansfield Hollow Park. After parking thetruck, Dev grabbed his guitar from the backseat. He turned to me, flashing me aquick wiggle of his eyebrows in his smooth, confident way, and climbed out. Iopened my door, hung my feet over the edge of the seat and eyed the groundbelow me. It didn’t seemthatfar in the darkness, and I moved to stepdown, gauging if I wanted to take that leap. Before I could make any bravedecisions though, Dev was at my side, his arm wrapped around my waist.
“Ireally don’t want you planting your face to the ground tonight, okay?” he said,curling his lips into a smug smile, as I hooked one arm around his neck.
“Alwaysthe hero,” I grumbled.
“Hey,if I wasn’t here, you’d have a busted nose right now,” he said, and as he loweredme effortlessly to the ground, I had to wonder:Where would I be if itweren’t for him?
Thepast year had been the worst I could remember, with my dad and the severity ofhis sickness: the cocaine addiction. He had checked into rehab for the fourthtime in my life and spent three months under strict supervision, with littlecontact to the outside world. No daisies came to my dorm for twelve, whole,miserable weeks, and I relied on Devin a lot.
Inever talked to him about the darkness in my life, afraid of what could happenif he found out. How he’d react. So, I never told him about my mom’s undyinglove for a man who couldn’t shake the devil off his shoulder, or myunwillingness to see him as anything other than the man who loved meunconditionally, despite it all.
But,I still called him a lot, needing the distraction of his friendship and hispresence. Needing to hear him play his guitar and sing. Because, when Devinsang, he went somewhere else and he took me with him. Somewhere far away, wherethe only emotions running rampant were pure and good and affectionate. I fed onthat, and on those nights where my mind was filled with worry and longing for alife I could never have, I craved it. Him and his music.
Butthis was a good day.
Ihad daisies, and I had Devin.
Wewalked out to the lake and sat on the grassy bank, facing darkness and themystery of the other side. The moon cast little light on us, not doing much toguide Devin’s fingers to the frets he needed. It didn’t matter, he could play blind,never needing to watch his fingers, and he cleared his throat.
Ilooked up to the sky, to the glow of the moon, and in a whisper, I recited,“’For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams, of the beautiful AnnabelLee.’”
“’Andthe stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes, of the beautiful AnnabelLee,’” Devin continued in a rasped tone that sent the soda in my stomachswirling, and I looked back to him.
“You’vebeen reading Poe?”
Heshrugged. “Just a little.”
Andthat was another thing about Devin, another thing that made it impossible tobelieve he was single. His attention to all the details and the effort he putin.
Ifelt the heat rise to my cheeks, and I was wishing that things were different.
Hecoughed and cleared his throat. “So, uh … this one is called ‘Edge of a BlueExistence,’”hissilhouetted handspositioned on the neck of his old guitar.
“Ooh,I like the title,” I said, rubbing my hands together with anticipation. “What’sit about?”
“LikeI’d tellyou,” he teased, chuckling.
“Oh,it’s asecretsong. Must be about a girl,” I countered, jabbing him withmy elbow. Maybe he wasn’t as single as I thought.
“Mustbe,” he grumbled. “Now, shut up or I’m not playing it.”
“Mylips are sealed.”
Thelight from the moon was enough to see the shape of his hand strumming up anddown over the strings. Enough to see his chin tip toward his chest and hisforehead crumple. Enough to see the gentle back-and-forth sway of his body intime with the music.
Itwas a slow song, seasoned with emotion, and as his whispered voice competedwith the hushed noises of the night, my mouth fell open with a gasp.
