Page 8 of Songs for Libby

Then I closed my eyes and let my fingers do their thing. I started off with a Beethoven piece, which morphed into my own rendition and then a different melody before going into something more upbeat, reminiscent of the 1950’s, and then back to a classical piece that I knew by heart. Music and I—we had chemistry.

The reason I had pushed Sean so hard was because I understood good music. I may not have had the raw vocal talent that Sean had, but music sang through my blood and strummed through my bones. Singing had brought us together. We’d been seated next to each other on the first day of choir. It was my freshman year of high school and I’d been positioned on the edge of the altos, butting up next to the tenors, and my awkward first-day-of-high-school inner turmoil was only added to when I ended up next to a sophomore guy. There were no desks to act as natural buffers on those choir risers, so I felt more exposed. But by the end of that first day, I was totally at ease. Sean bubbled over with effervescent joy. I loved singing, but Sean breathed it.

The next three years I helped him write songs. We built a sound booth so he could record his first songs. I uploaded them to YouTube myself. We worked together to find other musicians so he could perform live. I schlepped sound equipment to gigs. I told him when it was time to find a new bass player.

My musical know-how told me he was good enough. I pushed him when he didn’t want to do the work or make the effort. He wouldn’t be where he was now if not for me.

I’d never been less proud of anything in my life.

♪♫♪

Jonas and I confirmed plans that afternoon and I had the annoying job of finding something to wear. I couldn’t wear the same dress again— the dress that had been chosen specifically for this first getting-to-know-you date—but I didn’t have time to shop for something else, so I dug through my closet and made it work. Jonas had chosen a more casual restaurant, so I decided to go with skinny jeans and a flowy top. I curled my light auburn hair into soft waves and hoped they would hold.

Tara had texted me, asking how it went last night, and it was a relief to tell her that we were meeting again. I left out the part where I ditched out in the middle of our first date.

I headed downtown but had trouble finding a parking spot that I’d be comfortable returning to after dark, so I was just a couple minutes late when I walked into the restaurant. I looked around, hoping he would be there and that I wouldn’t have to sit and wonder if he was going to stand me up as penance. But I spotted him when he stood and held up a hand in greeting. A thrill raced through me at the sight of him. He was average height and fit, with a military-short haircut.

I walked over, my hands absently running down the sides of my jeans to fend off the nervousness. “Hi,” I said as I stopped in front of him.

“Hi,” he said with a smile that might have made lesser women cry. Then he reached for a hug and I did my best to return it, unused to people randomly hugging me. “I’m glad you could make it.” He swept a hand toward the table. “Is this okay?”

“Yes. It’s perfect. Thank you,” I said, scooting into the booth and shoving my purse into the corner. I tucked my hair then looked up. I still felt terrible about the way I’d left last night, so I pressed my hands together and sandwiched them between my knees in an effort to get them to stop shaking. “I think I owe you an apology.”

His left eyebrow and the left corner of his mouth curled up in an open, curious expression. “Why’s that?”

“Last night I was rude.”

“But you already apologized for that.”

“Right, but—”

“No buts,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m just glad you were willing to come out with me tonight.”

That was really nice of him, but I wanted him to understand what had happened. “Can I explain?”

“I’d love to hear anything you have to say.” He sat back and sipped his water, giving the appearance that he had all the time in the world for me.

Here went nothing. “My friend drinks too much.”

He frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Sometimes he drinks way too much, and for some reason when he gets that way, I’m the only one he’ll listen to.”

“So you go take care of him?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded, seeming to accept my words at face value. “Does he have a name?”

“Sean.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Since high school. We met in choir.”

The concerned frown went away, replaced by a pleased smile. “You sing?”

I shook my head. “I used to, but now it’s just for fun.”