So Emeline went alone.
She arrived at the café early to set up. The owners gave her freepeppermint tea and ginger cookies. Emeline checked and double-checked her mic, then her amp. She tuned and retuned her ukulele. She was so nervous, she felt like throwing up.
All of a sudden, it was seven o’clock.
Time to sing.
“Hi,” she said a little too quietly, into the mic, staring out at the tables full of people sipping coffees and digging forks into their desserts. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “Um. I’m Emeline Lark and … um … I’ ll be playing some songs tonight.”
Obviously. That’s why she was sitting on a stool with a ukulele!
Her cheeks burned with embarrassment.
A few people paused their conversations to look up at her. Others kept talking. At the very back, Emeline saw Grace Abel sitting alone near the window. Her head was bent over a notebook and her hand moved furiously across the page. Studying, probably. Emeline and Grace weren’t in any of the same classes at school, because Grace was in the most advanced ones.
“This song is about my best friend.” She’ d written it for Sable a few months ago. “I, um …”Oh my god! Stop saying “um”!“I hope you like it.”
More people looked away, resuming their conversations.
Maybe I can’t do this,she thought.Maybe I should say I’m sick and go home. Save myself the humiliation, and spare these poor people.
But there was someone at the back still watching her. Someone who hadn’t looked away since she first started talking. A boy with dark hair. He leaned back, one elbow looped around his chair, finger marking his spot in a book, not taking his eyes off her.
Hawthorne Fell.
Emeline hadn’t even told him about tonight. Had Sable?
It didn’t matter. She had someone to play for.
Emeline started to strum, then sing. She stared at Hawthorne—the one person in the room who gave her his full attention—focusing only on the warm pleasure in his eyes as he listened.
She immediately hit her stride. Her voice didn’t falter. Her fingers didn’t tremble. She flew through the songs breezily, as if she were back on the farm with Sable stretched out in the grass beside her.
One after another, heads turned towards her. Conversations grew quiet. People started tapping their toes and bobbing their heads. Even Grace stopped studying to listen.
Emeline kept her eyes on Hawthorne, fearing that if she un-hooked her gaze from the one steady thing in this room she might lose her way.
Halfway through her set, after she’ d switched out her ukulele for her guitar, another arrival was marked by an earthy, mulchy scent blooming through the air. With it came the faint but steady beat—like that of an ancient heart—thudding beneath the soles of her feet. Keeping time with her songs.
The woods came gently. Respectfully. Like an old friend showing its admiration and support. Its looming presence kept to the edges of the room, listening to her play, and by the time Emeline finished her last song and set her guitar down on its stand she noticed three tiny ferns growing up through the floor, unfurling around her feet.
It was the first time the woods ever came to hear her play.
By the time Emeline finished packing up her gear, the owners had asked her to come back next week. They even gave her cookies for the road.
When she stepped outside, she found Hawthorne leaning against the hood of Pa’s truck, waiting for her. Pa, who’ d come to pick her up, was inside chatting with some neighbors.
“Hi,” said Hawthorne, his dark hair falling into his eyes. He wore pale jeans and a charcoal-gray shirt.
“Hi,” she said back, feeling shy now that she’ d spent her entire set staring at him from across the café. After hoisting herinstruments into the back seat, she said, “Thanks for coming. You didn’t have to do that.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “I wanted to.”
A fluttering warmth rushed through her. Like startled butterflies.
It had been like this for a while with Hawthorne. Strange and awkward; stilted conversations full of long pauses; lots of avoidingof eyes.
She shut the door, blushing hard. “Do you want a ride back?” Pa wouldn’t mind.
