No, I’d bought the guitar to somehow feel closer to the one person who could never know my true feelings for him.
I bought it to feel some sort of connection, despite the fact that he lived on the other side of the country.
I learned how to play just so I could close my eyes and cradle that guitar to my chest, holding it like a lover, wishing he was there with me, singing his lyrics softly into his ear.
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 hammer of my heart
I played the song now, the tempo much slower than his original hit, the chords a simple strum on my guitar, just like the first time he played me the progression in his room that night.
When the song ended, I pressed the guitar close to my chest for a long while.
Eventually I stood it on the floor, resting against the table.
I got up, then returned to the table with the lighter and tea light and the French pastry from the fridge.
I lit the candle and murmured to myself, “Happy fortieth birthday, Harry.”
I blew out the candle, and through the tendrils of smoke I reached for the card resting amongst the flowers in the middle of the table.
I opened it and read my own handwriting aloud. “To my darling Harry, my secret, my stolen work of art, my hammer… Happy Birthday. I will love you always. Dean.”
I sighed then muttered to myself, “If only.”
I closed the card and slipped it through the strings of my guitar, then returned the guitar to the closet under the stairs and a defeated laugh escaped me. “For fuck’s sake, Harry, he won’t even remember who the fuck you are.”
I didn’t eat the pastry.
I put it back in the fridge and went to bed.
DEAN
“Who the fuck is Harry?”
The question came from my manager, Astrid, who was standing on the other side of the fitting-room door.
“What?” I felt panic tighten around my throat. “Why the hell are you asking me that?”
“Because there’s an unsent message on your phone from last night. It’s from you, wishing someone named Harry a Happy Birthday and if I’m honest, it’s kind of gushy… and emotional… and hot! Who is this Harry?”
I threw myself out of the fitting room, lunging for the phone in her hand. Unfortunately, I was only half -dressed, the bright red leather pants Astrid wanted me to wear for the shoot only halfway up my legs. Before I knew it, I came crashing out of the fitting room and teetering across my dressing-room floor, trying desperately to snatch my phone from Astrid’s clutches and failing spectacularly.
“Can you please gimme that!” I shrieked before—“Oomph!” I hit the dressing-room floor, shirtless, ass up, red leather pants slipping down around my ankles.
The second she heard me hit the floor, the freelance wardrobe assistant hired by Constellation Records for today’s shoot rushed toward me, giggling, her phone already out. Apparently, she was all too willing to throw her burgeoning career away for the chance to make her social media dreams come true by videoing me at my most awkward and vulnerable, before—
“Put that fucking phone down right now!” Somehow Astrid’s British accent and perfect pronunciation made her even more terrifying when she was mad. “Take one single second of footage of Dean Reeves in his jocks and I promise you’ll spend the rest of your fucking career washing the cum stains of sixty-year-old rock stars out of the sheets in the laundry room of the Beverly Hills Hotel. You wanna be famous? I’ve got news for you, sweetheart. It takes talent, not a phone. Now get the fuck out of here… you’re fired!”
With a clatter of her stiletto heels, the stunned and teary wardrobe assistant fled like a whimpering baby hyena about to be pounced upon and ripped to shreds by a protective lioness.
I rolled over onto my back on the floor, the leather pants still twisted around my ankles as I sighed with relief. “Thank you.”
Astrid smiled. “My absolute pleasure, darling. Now hold still, you look fucking adorbs.” With my phone still in hand she took a snap of me.
