Theelevator dinged its arrival before I couldrespondandRichard stepped out, carrying a pizza box. He grinned at us both—warm andfriendly—and headed over to the couch as we stood.
“Devin,Kylie,” he said, shaking my hand and kissing Kylie on the cheek. “I’m so gladyou could come today. How was the drive?”
“Itwas, uh … It was good,” I replied, wondering what exactly we were doing there.
Richardglanced around me, smile fading into surprise. “Wait, you didn’t bring yourguitar?”
“W-what?I didn’t know I had to.”
“Justchecking.” He grinned again. “Dev, why do you think I brought you here?”
“Uh.”I glanced down at Kylie and she shrugged. “To give us a tour?”
Richardshook his head with a light chuckle. “Come on,” he said, clapping me on theshoulder. “Follow me.”
Wewalked down a hallway and eventually stopped at an open doorway. Richardflipped on aswitch, andgestured inside. “Pick one.”
Iglanced into the room and saw a mindboggling assortment of instruments.Percussion, string, brass, and wind. Drums, pianos, flutes, and clarinets. Theywere all beautiful pieces of expert craftsmanship and I appreciated everysingle one of them.
Butmy eyes fixated on the guitars.
Theystood there on matte black stands, gleaming under the fluorescent lights.Wordlessly, I released Kylie’s hand and walked inside, under the spell of richwood and strings. I touched the neck of the Fender Stratocaster, ran my fingersalong the fretboard of an ESP Eclipse and—fuck, those guitars were thethings of dreams. I had collected pictures of them the way some boys collectpictures of Playboy models. I fantasized about caressing them, sliding myfingers over their strings of steel and nylon. I could’ve, but I was on amission, and I kept moving until I reached the Gibson Hummingbird.
Ilicked over my bottom lip and knelt in front of that beautiful piece ofmahogany and spruce. Examining it. Planning to seduce it in ways I hoped Kyliewouldn’t see. That guitar may not have been the love of my life, but I wasgoing to have the hottest of affairs with it, as I reached my hand out tostroke its sunburst body, rounding to its soft black edges. My fingertipsbrushed along its accentuated curves, and I curled my hand around the dovetailneck joint, sliding my thumb along its strings. It responded with a shrilllittle whine that made my groin burn with lust.
“Beautiful,huh,” Richard said. His voice harbored just the slightest bit of amusement, butnot at my expense. He was a music lover—an appreciator—and he appreciated mylove for that guitar.
Inodded slowly, losing myself in the glossy reflection. “Fuck yeah, it is,” myvoice rasped, and goddamn, that was no lie. It was the most beautifulacoustic-electric I had ever seen, just as I’d suspected it would be. I wonderedif I’d enjoy playing it as much as my own beloved Gibson, bought for me by mygrandfather at a pawn shop. I wondered if it would feel as comfortable, ashomely, and I wondered enough to gingerly take it from its stand, to grip theneck in my left hand, and rest the body over my thigh.
Softfootfalls came from behind me as my right-hand fingers gently seduced thestrings, filling the space with an impromptu melody that sounded the way sexfelt.
Kylieknelt beside me, putting her hand on my shoulder, and I turned to her. I feltlike I was cheating on her, and I blushed.
“Areyou in love?” she asked quietly, a suppressed giggle crinkling the corners ofher eyes.
“Onlywith you,” I said, lifting one side of my mouth into a lopsided grin. “But, Ican’t promise I won’t fuck this guitar.”
“Howdoes it feel?” Richard asked. I looked over my shoulder to see him leaningagainst the door, box of pizza still in hand. Probably cold by now, and I feltlike an inconsiderate asshole.
“Amazing.”I said the word, wrapping a gust of heavy breath around it, and he nodded.Satisfied.
“I’mglad. Hold onto it and follow me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Kylie
When I was twenty-two,I found my dad’s stashof drugs. I stole them. I took them back to my dorm room, thinking I was savinghim, and my dad responded by buying enough cocaine to overdose and die.
Itwas that heartbreak, the pain of being robbed of my savings and my father, thatmade me believe my dreams had crawled into a hole, never to resurface again.That there was no way in hell I could ever recover from that loss.
Butthen, Devin stepped in and did what he could to keep my dream alive, whilesetting his own aside. All he wanted in return was the promise that I wouldnever give up on being the funky-haired barista with a love of music, books,art, and coffee. I promised, while mourning the loss of his own dreams. I hadhim play every week. I gave him his cut of the profits. I did what I could to keepthose dreams alive, to keep him from forgetting abouthispassion whilehe built houses and laid brick.
Now,sitting in the booth, sandwiched between a sound tech named Jerry and Richard,I looked at Devin through the glass. I watched him fit the headphones over hisears and watched him tune the guitar to his liking. He sat on a stool thatwho-knows-who had sat on before him, and I wondered if that had crossed hismind as he hooked his dirty boots on the middle rung:Who sat here beforeme?He caught my gaze and I grinned at him. He made a face of nervescoalescing with excitement, and my heart chanted his name.
Ithought about the domino effects in life. The things that happen on our journeyto the places we need to go. How our lives would be different, had those thingsnot occurred. Some good. Some bad. Some so fucking tragic, I could hardly standthinking there could be a reason, other than living under a cruel God in acruel world.But yet, there I was, thinking about mydad and his death. The money—mymoney—he used to buy his drugs. Themoney Devin gave upto helpme. How my mom had foundherself in the arms of Richard. How that man was now making my man’s dreamscome true.
Ifmy dad’s sickness hadn’t killed him, would any of this be happening at all?
