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"What did you talk about in your session today?" He was always curious about my sessions with Doctor Williams.
"My mom." My voice sounded small.
"So you didn't talk, then?" I heard the smile in his voice as he tried to make light of the heavy subject and was flooded with appreciation for his unending patience.
Of course, he had no way of knowing just how dark and difficult it all was. I had never told him much about my mother, beyond the facts that she died in the accident and I almost died because she hadn't buckled me up. I didn't have to say how much I loathed bringing it up, he just knew.
"I tried not to."
"You tell her about me yet?"
"No."
He sighed. "I wish you would. What if I wanted to talk to her?"
I pulled away just enough to look up into his eyes. "Why would you want to do that?"
He shrugged, setting his half-smoked cigarette in one corner of his mouth. "To help me understand. I've never been through the stuff you have and-let's face it-you're a walking enigma to me half the time. Is it so bad that I want the tools to help you?"
"Jake, you already help me."
His brow furrowed. "How?"
"By being with me. By caring for me. That's all I need, Jake. If I have your love, I don't need anything else."
"You've got it. In spades, baby. For as long as you want." He reached over and practically pulled me on top of him.
As his mouth trailed kisses down my neck, his heat coursed through me. "I'll always want this." I whispered.
He stomped out the butt of his cigarette and tossed it inside an old coffee can on the corner of the porch while I reached for the backdoor.
Sitting at the Fosters' kitchen table, Jake locked eyes with me through his lashes. Holding his black acoustic guitar across his lap, his hair fell forward, not quite covering his eyes. It gave him a mischievous look that made my heart sing. As he mindlessly strummed, he talked. He loved to talk, and he thought better with music.
I often wondered if he thought in song form. If the notes and melodies that flowed from his fingertips were just a small part of a never-ending symphony within his head. It was a very special thing to witness, to be in the presence of someone who was so inexplicably talented. So anomalous and unearthly.
"I've been tinkering with your song." He grinned, but it didn't touch his eyes. "I think it sounds better on acoustic. It should be tender, like you." I don't know what look he saw on my face, but he stopped playing.
"You changed my song? But I love my song."
"I made it better. Angel, when I first wrote it, all the feelings were very big and felt like they happened fast. So, the music was big and fast." He gestured towards me, guitar pick in hand. "We still feel very big and intense, but I want the song to reflect you and me; our soft solidity. That music is on a different song, now. We'll play it at the show. My lyrics-your words-I'm keeping."
Jake set the pick on the table and plucked the strings with his fingers. It wasn't mindless anymore, but a simple melody. He rocked back and forth with a subtle, joyful concentration. He straightened one leg out before him, resting his big boot in front of my opposing chair.
"Just listen. You'll like it."
The tune was soft and sounded happy. Catchy. I nodded my head with the melody, hoping that he would do what he did next.
Jake had super powers. When he sang, time froze. With a single note he could stretch a moment-a simple pluck of a string or the tightening of a vocal cord-into a lifetime. As he began to weave his magic my well of emotion surfaced, blurring his face. The moment was so raw-my love for him and his gifts so strong and pure, against the words that were so beautiful. My song was remade. Brand new. I listened closely, quietly singing along with some of my favorite lines . . .
The ash in my hand is remade in golden dust
A smile brings sunlight along with the lust
The days begin again, renewed
I wait for miles and miles. Nights become skewed
Searching the skies, cursed with hope
