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THEN
JARED
My fingers glide over the strings as I play the chorus of “Simple Man” on my Gibson. I love this old guitar. It was a high school graduation present from Dad, and I remember the note he wrote and wove through the strings when he gave it to me: Now you have your own. Don’t bother asking if you can take mine to college in the fall.
I still laugh every time I think about that. There’s no way of counting how many hours I logged on his guitar, but I know it’s enough that I can play just about any song after hearing it one time. For my sixteenth birthday, Dad bought me some lessons, and he was proud when the instructor told him that I had a natural ear for music. Of course, though, Dad made it well known that playing the guitar was merely a hobby for me and not a career path that I could even consider.
Baseball was my destiny. Even as a junior in high school I captured the eye of college scouts. Dad was right. Baseball is my future. I’m good at it, and it looks as though I have an amazing career in front of me.
London lies on her side, watching me intently as I continue to play and begin to sing to her while we sit on a blanket in the grass just in front of my dorm. The rasp in my voice is on point, and soon a small crowd begins gathering around us.
It’s like this every time I sing, students stopping on their way to class to listen to me cover songs that I love.
I close my eyes and project my voice, making sure even the people behind the crowd can hear me.
I like being the center of attention. It makes me feel good, knowing that I’m entertaining people, whether that’s on the field or just me sitting here playing this guitar and singing.
When I finish playing the last chord, the horde of people around us begins clapping and cheering, shouting out for me to play another. I smile at all of them and do as requested. Like the last one, it’s another slow rock ballad. Those songs seem to fit my voice best, and I learned a lot of the classics from Dad.
When I finish the second one, once again the crowd cries for me to keep playing, but I simply shake my head and laugh.
I set my guitar back in the case and then wrap my arms around London. “Have to get some study time in with my girl here. I’ve distracted her long enough.”
A few of the girls sigh heavily before walking off. Some even tell London that she’s a lucky girl, which makes her smile proudly.
London sits up and then busies herself with pulling out a few textbooks from her bag and spreading them out on the blanket.
I reach out and grab one of the books and then glance up just in time to find a petite girl staring at me intently from about twenty feet away. Her short, jet-black hair has a bright pink stripe in the bangs while the rest of her clothes scream grunge, and I find it odd that she’s just staring at me so blatantly. Goth chicks aren’t usually so enamored of jocks like me.
I break eye contact with the girl, giving her a chance to look away too, but when I check again, she’s still staring at me. She takes a couple steps toward us and then plops down on the grass in front of London and me without any sort of invitation.
I raise my eyebrows as the girl tilts her head as if to get a better look at me.
“I can’t figure you out,” the girl says as she narrows one of her heavily made-up eyelids. “Are you a jock or are you a musician?”
My brow furrows instantly at her question. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she says with a sigh, “musicians live and breathe their music, and it bleeds into every facet of their life. Most guys that look like Abercrombie models aren’t deep enough to be believable when they sing, but you, you’re different. I can feel your emotion when you sing, and that’s not something that can be faked.”
I laugh. “That’s a little stereotypical, don’t you think?”
She shrugs. “Maybe, but a true musician puts his craft in front of everything else. I just don’t think it’s fair to the rest of us who don’t look like you. You shouldn’t be allowed to be gifted in more than one thing.”
“Um . . .” I sit there stunned and glance over at London, who simply shrugs. This girl floors me. She’s so forward that she almost comes off as rude. I don’t think she means to be, but I don’t know how to react to her. “Thanks, I think?”
She shoves herself up to her feet. “Oh, that was definitely a compliment. Here.” She reaches into the back pocket of her jean shorts and pulls out a business card and then hands it to me. “I’m in a band called Lick Me and Split. If you ever want to gig with us, we can always use another guitar player. You should know I don’t make this offer to just anyone. Only people I think are truly amazing.”
I take the card, glancing down at the picture of a seductive tongue poking through a pair of ruby-red lips, and chuckle. “Nice.”
“Isn’t it? Guys seem to like it. Call us if you ever want to jam. Later.”
And just as fast as she appeared, the petite rocker chick is gone, blending in with the crowds milling about on the lawn on this beautiful fall day.
“That was odd.” London’s voice pulls my attention back to her.
I laugh and couldn’t agree with her more, but I seize the opportunity to poke a little fun at the situation. “Yeah, but it’s nice to know that someone thinks I have some talent.”
London giggles, and her green eyes light up as she leans in to kiss my lips. “I can tell you for a fact that you’re talented in more areas than just baseball.”
