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I point out the ones on the far wall that are all international versions of guitars, some with more strings or structured differently which can impact the sound.Then I point to one of my favorites.It’s a limited-edition Gibson Flying V, painted cerulean blue—I know that will automatically make it her favorite, which is why I chose that custom color to begin with.
“I never heard how you got into music.You guys were already jamming together by the time I joined the group.”
“My uncle.After our mom died, he taught Trent and me how to play guitar and it spiraled from there.”I grip the back of my neck, feeling suddenly shy.It’s weird to have her here.Normally, we hang on my back patio or in the living room.It’s surreal to open up other aspects of my life to her.
“I think music saved me from turning into my parents.”
Her discerning gaze locks on me.“How so?”
“Things were tough after my mom died.Trent was getting into fights and struggling with school.He was hyperfocused on me like he’d always been, but he was having a hard time.I tried to keep it together because I didn’t want to burden him with more shit, but I was struggling too.As shitty of a mom as she was, I still loved her, and her death hit me hard.But I was a kid and didn’t really know how to express what I was feeling.Then my uncle taught us how to play, and I think both of us found salvation in making our own music.I finally found a way to express myself, which then turned into writing lyrics to go with the tunes I’d put together on my guitar.Some days, writing music was the only thing that kept me from reaching for a bottle of booze and going down the same path my parents did.”
“What happened to your dad?”
“He died when I was six from an overdose.My parents had split up by then, but my mom still took it really hard.”My fingers twitch for my pen and notebook to release the buildup of emotion the only way I know how.This is the most I’ve talked about my parents in a very long time—maybe ever.Before Jolie came into my life, all my songs were about them, about the uncertainty of growing up in that environment, the fear.I know what Trent did to take care of us until our aunt and uncle got full custody.I know I wouldn’t be the man I am if it weren’t for him, even if he sometimes drives me crazy.
“She spiraled after he died, and you know the rest.”
She moves to stand next to me and slides her hand in mine, giving it a squeeze—and fuck, if it doesn’t feel like she squeezes my heart with that motion.
“I’m sorry you went through all that so young.”
I shrug.There’s nothing for her to be sorry about.We can’t change any of it now, and it made me who I am.
She must sense I don’t really want to stay on this topic because she squeezes my hand one more time and then moves to another part of the room where I have a few ukuleles and a mandolin.We spend the rest of the night talking music and eating more tacos.At one point I tell a joke that makes her laugh, with her eyes closed and her head tipped back like her whole body is participating.It’s the first laugh I’ve heard from her in a year, and the emotion that swells within me from that one single sound is nearly impossible to hold back.
But I’ve had practice, and I know it wouldn’t be well-received.She may not be as broken as she was, but she’s still a woman grieving the love of her life.
And I’m still the man loving her in silence.
