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Hudson
Handing Nick an extra guitar pick, I make my goodbyes to the boys. We’ve been playing all day and I need to find Charlotte. Things got weird last night and after not seeing her all day, I’m starting to worry. Walking into the record room, I hear another great song playing. This woman has the greatest taste in music, and I smile when I hear her sexy raspy voice singing along to Lauryn Hill’s “Killing Me Softly.” My steps slow just to listen to her longer. I know she would stop when she saw me, so I hang back, getting goosebumps as she belts out the lyrics most would be fools to try and match.
When the song’s over, I step around and find her picking up an acoustic guitar and freeze. She doesn’t see me yet and starts playing a song I’ve never heard. I believe it’s one she wrote because she’s reading from her notebook. It’s beautiful and heavy; the words bleed pain of abuse, and I wonder if our pasts aren’t so different. Her eyes are closed, and I can’t help but move to her. She is so beautiful, inside and out; if only she knew it, she would be unstoppable. For sure she would leave a sorry little orphan like me in the dust even if I did stay.
Her eyes flutter open and lock on me. She stops singing but keeps strumming, blessing me with a small blush on her cheeks.
“Please don’t stop,” I say and round her, covering her eyes, and she begins singing again. When she’s finished, she has to take my hands away, I’m so lost in her song.
“That was bloody beautiful, Charlotte.”
She shrugs and in a small voice says, “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“How does it feel to play in front of hundreds of screaming fans?”
“I don’t know that I’ve had the pleasure of even a hundred yet, but in my experience, playing my music for people who seem to enjoy it is extremely gratifying. It feels like I’ve won the love of everyone who likes my words. Sure, most of my songs are sad, but truth be told, I would be playing them anyway, so it feels great to have people actually like it.”
“I bet it feels out of this world.” With a sad smile she puts her guitar down against the wall.
“People would love you singing that song to them. Its raw and real, and people relate to pain before they do anything else.” I come around to sit on the table with her.
“I want to be able to share it, and I have a million more like this one. None are happy.” She laughs a bit but it’s sad.
“My songs are all about drinking or my terrible relationship with my parents,” I tell her honestly while shyly looking at my hands. I’ve never told anyone who I wrote them for. My band doesn’t know the real reason why I seem so pissed after certain songs, or that I was disowned at sixteen years old for trying to save my mother from being beaten to death by my father. After I laid him out, it was she who yelled for me to go, disgust and betrayal written all over her bloody and bruised face. I think he even managed to knock out a tooth that night. From then on, I was on my own, taking only my guitar and a backpack full of clothes. I find myself spilling all these secrets to her, and she listens without judgment. I tell her how I got by on the streets of London, playing at Covert Garden until I met up with the boys who helped me come back to America, where I was born but had to get all the right papers sorted. By then I was eighteen and looking for a real chance at a music career. We hit it off great, but never before have I told anyone else.
She nods and I think she can relate, and I wait for her to speak.
“My parents had a toxic relationship too, but my mom left us when I was two, and I took the beatings from then on out.” As soon as the words leave her mouth, my temperature rises. I clench my jaw and ball my hands into fists. I try to hide my anger, but when she looks at me, I know she sees it.
“I’m grateful you’re not looking at me with pity right now.”
“I would never. And for the record, if I could kill your father I would.” At my words her small smile grows. Not exactly the response I thought I would get, but I will happily take it.
“He paid for his sins.”
“Good.”
“If I can ever do anything for you, I will, Charlotte. Without hesitation.”
“Could I ask you a weird favor?” I think I might do anything for this bird, her weirdness only intrigues me.
“Yes. Name it.”
“Will you help me be less shy? More confident, I guess. I don’t know that I’ll ever be as good as the artists here, but I’m really wanting to be able to play without the fear of embarrassment that seems to choke me. It’s a terrible feeling and I hate it.”
