Or she’s giving the two of ussome privacy. . .
“Yeah,” I say, but nerves slowly seep through me, spreading all over my body as I lower myself back down into the chair next to Blake.
We haven’t spoken just the two of us since that afternoon at the pool, and being alone with Blake, I’ve realized, is exhilarating. That rush of wondering what exactly will happen next. . .
“So, about this guitar. . .” I say, nodding to the guitar case positioned between our chairs. “You’re a musician?”
Blake shifts his gaze from the fire to me, but embers of orange still flicker in his eyes. “No,” he says, “but I’m trying to be.”
He wedges his half-finished drink into the ground between the rocks, then swings his guitar case onto his lap. I watch in silence as he releases the latches, and with a glance out of the corner of his eye he lifts the lid to reveal an acoustic guitar.
With great care, Blake strokes his fingers over the mahogany wood of the neck. There’s a few tiny scuffs in the body of the guitar, a sign it has been well-loved, but the honey-colored wood still shines under the firelight. He runs his hand along the fretboard and all the way up to the headstock that readsGIBSON.
“The original Gibson Hummingbird,” Blake says with a shyness in his voice that I have never once heard before, his twang more pronounced than usual. He lightly brushes his thumb over the taut strings. “It was my dad’s. He loved music too, but he lost his ambition, so he threw in the towel and passed his guitar over to me instead.”
My lips part to form an “O”, because this is the first time Blake has ever mentioned his father. It’s not like I haven’t noticed he doesn’t seem to be around, but it’s not the kind of thing you ask, especially if they’re. . .
“Oh, he’s not dead or anything,” Blake says with a laugh when he notices my expression. “Just an alcoholic who took off for Memphis to shack up with his side chick.”
“Oh.” That’s not what I expected. “But you kept his guitar?”
“Well, yeah. It’s aGibson freakingHummingbird, Mila.” He tilts his head to the side and studies me, fascinated by my lack of knowledge. “I’ll play this guitar until the day it has no life left in it.”
“And is this what you want to do with your life?” I ask, edging in a little closer. I gaze curiously at the guitar again, then smile up at Blake. “Music?”
“Hey, it’s in my blood,” he says with a sheepish shrug and a grin to match. “I’m hoping to study at Vanderbilt next fall, and I’ve been begging Marty to let me play sometime.”
“Marty?”
“He owns Honky Tonk Central. Says I’m too young to be playing in his bar. Won’t even give me an afternoon slot when it’s family-friendly!” Blake explains with an indignant scowl. “He thinks Mom will find some reason to shut him down if she were to find out that he ever let me perform there.”
At the mention of his mom, I’m reminded of the way she abruptly walked out on dinner last Sunday when Blake dared to even mention the word “music”.
“So, your mom isn’t a huge fan of your guitar playing, is she?” I ask carefully.
Blake’s lips falter into a smaller, saddened smile. “No. She doesn’t think music is a viable career choice. She wants me to study business or something equally as draining. Like, you know,politics.” A frustrated sigh escapes him, and he stares longingly at his guitar again, as if dreaming of a future that includes it. “Every time I try to discuss it with her, she shuts me down. Doesn’t even like hearing me play. It reminds her too much of my dad.”
I grimace in sympathy. “I’m sorry, Blake.”
In the moments I spend absorbing the hurt in Blake’s eyes over his mom’s disregard for his passion, I realize that I have never really given much thought to what kind of a life I can have beyond being Everett Harding’s daughter. Of course, I have fantasized about turning eighteen, taking off for college and being free of the confinements of Dad’s world, but yet I have never really thought about what that means. Never worked out the finer details, never figured out what path I want to pursue, never took the time to discover who I am and who I want to be.
Blake may not have his mother’s support, but he at least has ambition, and passion. He has a dream of his own. Blake has every intention of carving out his own path in life.
He’s still gazing at his guitar, one hand over the fretboard, the other resting on the body. The bonfire continues to blaze, and its warmth grows stronger, casting heat and an orange glow over our faces. With a deep breath, I reach over and place my hand atop Blake’s.
“So,” I whisper. “Can I hear you play?”
Blake stares at my hand on his, our skin warm, but my heart sinks as he pulls his hand out from beneath mine. Then, a second later, he places his over mine instead, interlocks our fingers together, and squeezes. Our eyes meet and we share a tentative smile. He nods.
Letting go of my hand, he gets up. There’s something incredibly charming about the way he throws the guitar strap over his head, nestles it on his shoulder, then ruffles his hair as if getting ready for his audience.
He leaves the empty case on the chair next to me, then trudges down to the bonfire. He stands as close to the fire as he can without getting burned, and spends a minute tuning his guitar, his lower lip between his teeth. During this time, the crowd has realized they’re about to get a performance, and chat begins to dwindle. The music playing in the background from a speaker lowers.
Blake looks up at the sea of expectant faces and clears his throat. “Hey, everyone. I hope you like the new location, but remember that fire station we all drove by? Yeah, don’t do anything stupid. Stay clear of the trees. Take all your trash home with you at the end of the night. Drinkers, don’t drive. And please no one drown in the lake.”
“Okay, Mayor Avery!” someone yells, but although their tone is playful and void of any malice, I know it must drive Blake insane.
Blake, his eyes searching for the culprit, forces a laugh. “Okay, well, in our usual bonfire fashion, the floor is open to anyone who wants to entertain us. And because none of you ever have the balls to go first, I guess it’s up to me again.”
