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I just play and I breathe and I wonder how I went so long without this.
Eyes burning, I finally slow my fingers, and look up to find Shawn watching me with unreadable eyes.
“I’ve missed this,” I tell him, with a note of surprise.
And he just nods, telling me without words, that somehow…
Somehow, he gets it. This guy who is a stranger, and yet has met my sister…my mom…
This guy who reminds me of Waylon, and who I feel weirdly drawn to. Like…like there’s something important here.
“That song you were playing before…”
His gaunt cheeks turn ruddy around his scruff, and he looks away, nodding shortly.
“Can you show it to me?” Brown eyes flit to mine, and I shrug. “I used to fuck around too.”
For a long moment, he just stares at me.
Then, finally, he gestures at my hand on the frets, and then curls his own fingers, explaining where to put them. It’s tricky, especially given how rusty I am—not to mention, essentially a novice when it comes to guitar. When Gavin taught me, he’d physically place my fingers where I needed them to go.
But Shawn…
Clearly, touching is a hard-limit for him.
So I remain patient, as does he, and slowly, but surely, I’m able to roughly play the chords I woke up to.
My lip kicks up as my clunky playing smooths out. I half-expect Shawn to get sick of me trying to perfect it and steal it back, but surprisingly he seems content to let me figure it out and help me when I need it.
At one point, I skip a chord, and as if to compensate, some instinctual part of me just sort of…rolls with it, creating something new.
Only Shawn says, “Wait,” at the same time I pause, and cock my head.
“Do that again.”
So I do.
And then he gestures again.
He eyes my finger placement intently. He nods. “Can I?”
Without a word, I hand it to him, and he easily positions it against his chest, and puts his fingers to the frets.
Brow furrowed in deep concentration, he plays through the original song he wrote, and shifts right into mine. He sucks in the corner of his lip, and does it again, this time adding a couple notes to make it transition more seamlessly.
My eyes widen, flying to his.
“Huh,” he says. “That’s pretty good.”
A short, abrupt laugh bursts out of me.
“W-wait here,” I rush out, and scramble to a stand. His gaze follows me as I dart down the short hall to my room.
When I return, he’s playing through the song again, over and over until it’s this…rhythmic riff, undeniably catchy.
Opening my composition notebook to the next empty page, I pop the cap of my pen with my teeth, and bring the ballpoint down to the page.
“What are you doing?” he asks, now lightly plucking at the strings.
