“Ohmy God, you’resoanxious right now,” she teased, pressing her shoulderinto mine. “Just surprise me.”
Islapped my hand over my eyes. “Oh Jesus. Okay …” Deep breath in, deep breathout. “Okay,” and I cleared my throat again and dug into my pocket for a pick.
Iplaced it between my teeth, strummed downward, determined I was satisfied withthe sound and positioned my hands on the frets and over the strings.
“So,what are you going to play?” She wiggled her feet excitedly, and I laughed.
Isquinted my eyes at her under the streetlight as I pinched the pick between myfingers. “You promise not to make fun of me?”
“I’mmaking no promises to a guy I just met.”
“Hey,I promised not to abduct you,” I countered, pointing my pick at her.
Witha roll of her eyes, she wobbled her head. “Fine, fine. I promise to not makefun of you …much.”
Imade a show of glancing around, swiveling my head this way and that, and Itipped my mouth to her ear. “I’m really,reallyinto John Mayer.”
Iwas so close to her. I closed my eyes for a nanosecond and inhaled her scent.It was something floral, laced with a sweet, crisp fruitiness. Apple, maybe. Ididn’t know if it was her perfume or a shampoo, but whatever it was, it calmedmy nerves while perpetuating the pulsing arousal I had been plagued with sinceseeing her for the first time.
“You’renot going to sing ‘Your Body is a Wonderland’ to me, are you?” She was laughinglightly, freely, and I leaned away to stare into her glimmering eyes. Fuckinghell,all ofthose blues.
“Godno.” I said it with a groan and a dramatic roll of my eyes, but I was lying. I likedthat song, but she didn’t need to know that.
Mypick started tostrumand my fingers bounced fromchord to chord on the fretboard, as her feet moved in time with the tune. I openedmy mouth, got out the beginning of a single word, and her jaw unhinged.
“Wait,wait, wait … you didn’t tell me you sing too!” Her hands went to her mouth tostifle her squeal and I laughed, my fingers freezing against the strings.
“WasI supposed to warn you?”
“Devin,”she said, following the roll of her eyes as she tipped her head toward myshoulder. “You can’t just serenade a girl under the stars without at leastgiving her a heads-up.”
Ilaughed again, shaking my head incredulously. “Okay, fine. I sing, I play theguitar and sometimes I do this little knocking, foot stomping thing. Happy?”
“Yesthank you, I now consider myself thoroughly warned.Please, proceed.”
Ilooked to her, caught the excitement in her eyes, and I knew for certain that Iwas in trouble and this was a trouble I had never known before. This wasn’t thecondom went missingkind of trouble. This wasn’t thecalled her thewrong namekind of trouble. This was deeper,meaningful. It wasdangerousand my heart panicked with the twitching of herlips. God, I wanted to kiss them more than I wanted to get my hands on a GibsonHummingbird.
Imanaged a smile despite the rush of fear and started over. I thought a rousingrendition of “No Such Thing” was called for—a fun song that sounded the waysummer felt. Except, I went slower, suddenlywantingto serenade her,despite her insistence that she wasn’t sleeping with me. That was still fine. Icould take things slow, or, I could take them not at all. I just wanted to showher what I could do, what I was made of. Because for some reason, it now feltlike it all mattered.
Myfingers played “Not Myself” and my voice carried the lyrics into the night. Itwas an odd pick, I thought, but it felt fitting somehow. As if maybe I knewwhere time was going to take us, or maybe it was hope; I couldn’t really say. Isang my heart out, squeezing my eyes shut, feeling the words and the music.Strumming the strings with patient perfectionism. It was one of my favoritesfrom Mayer’sRoom for Squaresalbum. One of the songs I had practiceduntil the strings cut through my calluses and I had to wear a few Band-aids fora week.
Mygrand finale was a smooth segue into the chorus of “Bigger Than My Body.” Itwas unrelated in tone and meaning, but I loved that fucking song. I felt it andit felt me. It was my anthem, the musical embodiment of the feeling saying Iwas meant for something so much more thanthis. More than suburbanConnecticut. More than tool belts and jigsaws. I couldn’tnotplay itwhen I already had the guitar out, when I already had the music pumping theblood in my veins.
Iglanced at Kylie, at the tapping of her toes against the pavement. The chewingof her lower lip, the glint in her sapphire eyes. She grinned at me as I tippedmy head back to send those high notes into the sky. Her shoulder bumped intomine, rocking with the strumming of the guitar, and when I hit that last chord,throwing my pick-hand up into the air like I belonged next to Springsteen, Ibeamed back at her. I felt more elated than I everhadand I let out a loud and echoed whoop toward the sky.
Icontinued to grin, energetic and buzzed. “So, do I suck?” I asked, cocking mybrow and draping my arms over the guitar’s hollow body.
Kylie’ssmile spread over her face and her teeth sunk into her lower lip. “You alreadyknow the answer to that question.”
Feelingalive and fearless, I tilted toward her, gently touching my forehead to hers.“You promised to be honest,” I reminded her.
Shewrinkled her nose, playfully shoving me away and I leaned back, laughing, drunkon my music. “You want honesty?”
Inodded. “Yes, I do.”
“’Music,when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry,’” she said.
Myeyebrowsliftedand my mouth quirked into a sheepishlittle smile that probably would’ve embarrassed me, had she been anybody else.“Uh, what?”
