A cello rests, gathering dust, beside a guitar and a ukulele. The only instrument that’s perfectly clean is the violin. A warm cherry wood, it sits, unassuming.
“It’s a Yamaha,” Lex notes. “Like my piano.”
“I love it,” I breathe, excitement eating at me. I’ve never seen so many instruments within reach. I’d never, in a million years, be able to afford all of them. They aren’t cheap at their cheapest. Except perhaps the ukulele. Should I invest in a ukulele?
Lex’s soft chuckle makes me feel bare, like he’s reading my insipid little thoughts and finds them amusing. “Are you holding yourself back, sugar? Seems unlike you, seeing how you tore through my kitchen without a care.”
“Right, because anything I broke in the kitchen would be several hundred dollars to replace. I don’t think evenyourfancy rich person flour could cost that much.” Despite voicing my concern, he has given me permission in not so many words, so I walk right up to the cove of instruments and lift the ukulele.
It twangs dreadfully, a murmur of low notes, none of them right. I wince, swiping off dust and reaching for the keys. “What’s the order?” I ask.
Lex blinks, but answers, “Top to bottom, G, C, E, A.”
He watches me while I tune the little friend, finally pulling something whimsical out of its small body. My eyes brighten, and I test the frets, committing the notes to memory. Like a keyboard. I put together a couple chords, pick a song, and absently begin to strum.
It’shissong.
But of course it is.
I have a problem.
It doesn’t matter.
I don’t know how to play well enough to do anything more than strum vague chords sloppily and out of time. And I’m not going to startsingingany of the lyrics. That would be madness.
Giddy at the fact I “have” a little guitar, I jerk my attention up to find Lex. Warm. Hands in his pockets, he watches me with a tender smile that makes my fingers slip and my heart stutter. An unpleasant mismatch of notes echoes around us before ushering in silence he breaks.
“I thought you wanted to see theviolin.”
Lifting my nose, I strum a quick pattern. “Isawit.”
Shaking his head, he passes me, lifts the other little instrument, and plucks the strings like it’s a fiddle.
“The A is off,” I mention, but it’s not nearly as off as the ukulele was. It’s still recognizable.
“Mhm,” he turns the peg slightly, plucks again, and I shudder at the warm, clear sound, at the way he looks, standing there, tuning the instrument.
I love music.
And he’s too beautiful tied to it like this.
Lifting the bow, he twists the knob to tighten the hairs,then he lifts the violin to his chin. Dragging the bow across the strings, he takes a breath, leaving me captivated.
Our sad song. The one that brought us together. It slips from his fingers in mellow hints. His eyes close, and hebecomesmusic.
He’s beautiful.
Beautiful.
So beautiful.
Something tugs on my stomach, begging me to touch him, confirm he’s real, but I can’t bring myself to move, to break the moment while the whisper of the long strides eases around me.
The final notes ring into the air, leaving me entranced in a daze of him.
When he lowers the instrument and opens his eyes, he says, “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Hm?” I offer absently and wonder if I can ask him to play something else, or that again. My song with his heart is stunning, and I still feel the vibrations clinging to my soul.
