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Fucking Peter.
“So, uh,” I said before clearing my throat and closing my hand around the box in my pocket, “I know you told me not to buy you a present …”
“Oh God, Dylan,” she groaned, rolling her eyes back toward mine. “You really didn't have to—”
“I didn’tbuyyou one,” I insisted, pulling the package from my pocket. “Well, not really anyway. I had something made instead.”
“That's worse!” she said, her voice shrill while her eyes sparkled with excitement.
I handed her the flat square box wrapped in plain black paper, already terrified she'd think it was lame. But as she ripped the wrapping away, I prayed she'd at least be gentle.
Lennon lifted the cardboard lid away, revealing the coiled black bracelet, made from of a twisted guitar string. From the center hung a silver guitar pick, emblazoned with black wings on one side, a date on the other. She stared at it for a second, squinting her eyes to read the scribbled numbers before asking, “What does it mean?”
“Um, so …” I shifted my weight from the prosthetic to my good leg. My body ached. I wanted to get into the car and drive home. But this had to be explained first. “Four and a half years ago, we did a show at The Hillstone. While I was playing, that string snapped and cut my finger, and I saved it. I just”—I lifted the bracelet from the box and turned it over in my hands as I swallowed and prepared to continue—”stuffed it into my pocket after the show along with that pick. I always save a pick from every show and write the date on it.”
Her brows lifted with an immediate blend of intrigue and recognition. “Wait … that was—”
“The night I crashed my car, yeah,” I said, finishing the sentence.
“I was there,” she whispered, taking the bracelet from me. “I went with Tarryn. I was …” She blew out a breath, touching the black string with delicate fingers. “I was right there, in the front row, thinking that was the closest I would ever get to …” She looked up, her deep eyes meeting mine. “Well … you.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, brushing my hand beneath my nose. This was harder than I’d thought it would be. “Well, um, I didn't think I'd ever write again after that. I, uh … I didn't think I'd ever play again. But since meeting you and, you know, being inspired, it looks like we'll actually tour again after this album is done.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “That's amazing,” she replied. “But, um … why would you give this to me? Why wouldn't you want to keep it?”
“Because,” I said, shrugging like it should've been obvious, “I thought my life ended that night. I thought I was done, and for a while, I was. But then you came along, and just like that, life started again.”
That string and pick had once symbolized the end of everything. It had sat on my dresser as a trophy of a life I thought I'd left behind. But Lennon had proven me wrong with inspiration and hope, and it only felt right for that trophy to be hers. As a symbol of the life she had helped to bring back from the dead.
“I told you, I don't want to be an inspir—”
“I didn't say that,” I quickly interrupted despite it being true. “All I'm saying is, you helped me in ways that nobody else ever could. You showed me—”
“You ready?” Peter so rudely cut in, showing up at the most inconvenient moment imaginable. “I have the car running.”
“Yeah,” Lennon replied, breathless as she spoke. “I was just talking to Dylan. Was there, um …” She looked up to me while Peter snaked a possessive arm around her waist. “Was there anything else you wanted to say?”
Shaking my head, I lied, “Nah. That was everything.”
“Okay,” she said while quietly wrapping the bracelet around her wrist. “Will you text me when you get home?”
To let her know I'm safe. Because she cares.
Maybe more than she even realizes.
“Of course,” I said, shifting my weight again to lean down and brush my lips against her cheek and inhale the scent of orchids. “Happy birthday, Lennon.”
I didn't wait for her to reply as I turned and limped my way to the end of the sidewalk, ready to turn the corner and disappear from her view.
But something she had said plucked at my brain like a song you couldn’t get out of your head. Repeating over and over, looping, looping, until a vision came to mind of a pale, dark-haired woman standing in the front row against a metal barricade. Squinted eyes, nearly closed and straining, her face aimed directly at me.
“Wait,” I said, turning around quickly and nearly losing the prosthetic in the process. “You said you were there?”
That same pale face looked back at me, those same squinted eyes aimed directly at me. “Yeah,” she replied, nodding. “It was actually the last concert I went to.”
“Holy fuck,” I uttered, wiping a hand over my chin. “That's how I know you.”
Peter narrowed his suspicious eyes. “What?” He looked back at Lennon. “What's he talking about?”
