I turned off the running water.
I opened the door to see Dean standing there, smiling at me. “Say, do you think I could play you a couple of lyrics and get your thoughts? I’m kinda stuck on something.”
“Me? You want my thoughts? Oh, I don’t know anything about music.”
“You don’t have to. That’s the great thing about music. You don’t have to know why you like something, you just have to feel it inside.” He tapped his long, thin fingers to the middle of his bare chest.
“Oh no. I should go. We’re in the middle of a hand. The guys are waiting for me.”
“It’ll only take a minute.” He tilted his head to one side, his hair flopping before he pushed it off his forehead with one hand. “Please? Come sit on the bed with me for a second.”
Theonlyreason I sat was to help cover up the bulge in my crotch that had once again decided to rear its head. “Sure, let’s hear it.”
He plonked himself excitedly on the bed and tried to brush the creases out of the sheets before patting his hand on the mattress, telling me to sit next to him.
He sat his guitar in his lap and strummed it. “This is the chord progression so far.”
“What’s a chord progression?”
He smiled, as though he appreciated me asking an honest question, as though he was happy to enlighten me. “A chord progression is basically the tune of the song. It’s the structure that holds it together.” He strummed, and sang “bah, bah, bah,” along with the chords.
“I like it. Sounds catchy.”
“Thanks, but those aren’t the lyrics. And there won’t be any lyrics if I can’t get the words of the chorus right. That’s where I need your help. It’s a song about not being able to have the one thing you want… about loving the one thing you’ll never have.”
My pulse was pounding in my throat. “Sounds kinda… sad.”
“It is, I guess. But it’s full of hope too. Can I sing you what I’ve got so far?”
I shrugged—“Sure”—and my large left bicep brushed against his bare arm.
He was sitting closer than I realized.
We both gulped, our throats clacking.
He covered it up by launching himself into his song.
His voice was strong and clear, yet there was a tenderness, a vulnerability, a longing in his tone that sent a ripple up and down my body.
He closed his eyes, and I watched him, mesmerized, as he sang—
You’re a secret on the wind
You’re a stolen work of art
You’re the one I’ve always wanted
You’re the…something… of my heart
He stopped the guitar mid-chord. He rubbed the knuckles of one hand against his forehead. “It’s that last lyric, that one word I can’t get. You’re thewhatof my heart?”
He looked at me, his blue eyes practically pleading for an answer from me.
“What are you trying to say?” I asked, determined to keep my voice steady, my words calm and collected.
“I want to say you’re the one who owns my heart, you control its very beat, you always have,” he said, blinking anxiously but nonetheless holding my gaze. “It needs to be a metaphor for something strong, something that represents the power you hold over me, but also speaks to the very heartbeat that keeps me alive… that keeps our love alive.” He paused a moment then blushed and quickly added, “I’m not talking aboutyou, of course. I’m talking about whoever the subject of the song might be.”
“Of course. And who’s that?” I asked before I could stop myself.
