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I send Brutal a thumbs-up because I think Willow is the most chicken-frying worthy woman I’ve ever met, then grab the bag of food and the shakes. Juggling them, I drop them onto the tailgate beside Willow and climb up.
“Shakes are melted enough to be drinkable now, but we need to dig in or the fries are gonna be cold and gross.”
She sets her camera down to take the cardboard sleeve of fries I’m holding out. She munches on a few, and I do the same, comfortably silent for a moment as we stuff our faces.
“What about you? What was Willow Parker’s big dream when she was a little girl?” I ask, returning to our earlier conversation.
She disappears inside herself for a moment, her head tilted as she thinks. “I don’t know that I ever really had a dream, per se. Do you believe in destiny?”
I chew thoughtfully and nod. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, I think we’ve all got free will to do right or fuck up, but I’d like to think there’s some bigger plan somehow. You?”
“Growing up, Mom and Dad were all about experiences. That’s what they encouraged Oakley and me to chase. It was never ‘make the winning goal’. It was more about ‘being a part of a team’ or ‘learning something new’ and ‘how can I help this cause or solve that problem?’ So I never really thought that one day, I want to be an astronaut or a teacher or a photographer like most kids. My dreams were to learn a language, visit the country, and be fluent enough to get around on my own. Things like that.”
“Damn. That makes my bright lights big city dream sound shallow as hell,” I say with a laugh. “And boring as fuck.”
Willow bumps me with her shoulder. “No, it doesn’t. A dream can’t be wrong or right. It just is.”
Still not convinced, I ask, “Did you get to use whatever language you learned?”
“Comme ci, comme ca,” she says, which sounds like gibberish to me, but she seems pleased with herself as she explains. “So-so in French. I have the absolute basics of greetings, food, and asking for the bathroom in French, Spanish, and Italian because I went on a work trip with Mom one summer to visit an artist friend of hers. I knew more back then and thought I was so fancy, but I lost it because I never had a reason to use it after that.”
Suddenly self-conscious, I confess, “Shit, I barely speak English.”
“Whatever,” she says with a slight eye roll. “You sing it in a way that resonates with people, makes them feel something deep and powerful, and that’s a universal language.”
“Thank you,” I whisper huskily. Her single compliment means more than the truckloads of ones I’ve gotten in the past. Granted, those so-called fans were half-drunk and-or trying to get in my pants, but that’s beside the point. It’s because these kind words are from Willow that they mean so much.
“Did I see your guitar in the backseat?”
She’s being generous in calling the tiny bench a backseat. The only person who can fit back there is Cooper, Brutal’s stepson, and with another of his summer growth spurts, even he won’t be able to fit. But Betty does.
“Yeah.”
“Will you play while I take some pictures? Not for the blog but just for me.”
“Of course. Anytime.” I absolutely mean it. For her, I’d play concerts twenty-four, seven until my fingers bled and still keep going if she wanted me to.
I get Betty and climb back up on the tailgate, letting the curved wood rest against my thigh the way I have so many times before. I pluck at the strings mindlessly, watching Willow move around with her camera. She’s doing something to the settings, turning a dial and checking, then turning it again.
Click. Click. Click.
I start to softly sing an old favorite, The Man in Love with You by George Strait. It’s not one of his biggest hits and doesn’t even suit my deeper, grittier voice, but Mom used to play it and she and Dad would dance around the kitchen to its slow beat so it seems like sharing that is a good omen with Willow too.
I get lost in the music but never lose track of Willow. She’s a woman on a mission, and though I’m not sure what she’s capturing through that lens of hers, she seems pleased with whatever she sees. One song turns into two, then I don’t even know how many. But I play on, singing to her but also somehow becoming a part of what she’s doing every time she glances over and gives me one of those soft smiles.
A knot in my belly is loosening by the minute, and I want to stay here in this moment, just like this, forever. A melancholy melody plays through my mind, and I play it on a loop, forgetting all the covers I know in favor of teasing out what this new tune might be. One of hope lost but found in the most unexpected of ways, when it’d seemed least possible.
