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“Thanks,” said Ethan. He gazed over at Tracy.
“Hi,” said Tracy, sticking out her hand. “I’m Tracy. I loved your music.”
Kate smiled inwardly, wondering how much Tracy believed it.
Ethan nodded. “Glad you both could make it.” He looked over at Zig and grinned. “It was the only way I could get to see you, I decided.”
Zig chuckled and shrugged. “Yeah, work’s been crazy. And then well…we’ve been kind of busy.” Kate felt Ethan’s hand brush hers. Was he looking for reassurance?
“Sorry we didn’t get to talk more,” Kate said to Tracy, smiling. “Zig says you like music too. Do you go to many small gigs, or are you more of a concert-with-a-mosh-pit kind of girl?”
Tracy laughed, fiddling with one of the studs lining her ear. “Oh, I’m a mosh pit girl, no question about that. But this is good too. The small thing. I mean you can still really connect with the performers, but in a different way. It’s like a different experience. But good.”
Kate nodded reassuringly. Tracy was trying, there was no doubt, and Kate’s annoyance over her earlier behavior began to slip away. Tracy continued to talk about different bands, Zig and Ethan chatting in the background, and Kate found her mind wandering. She could tell Tracy was interested and knowledgeable about bands, it just wasn’t the kind of music Kate favored, or had even heard about. It reminded Kate once again how much she’d cut out that part of her life in the last several years. She was surprised how sad it made her feel.
Thirty-Two
The guitar felt good in Kate’s hands, and she didn’t know if that was more startling, or the fact that the music was flowing, and it felt so good playing with Ethan. They’d been at it an hour, or maybe more, she wasn’t certain. They’d ridden back to the cabin on his motorcycle, Kate in back with his guitar strapped to her. That the whole experience had been completed without fuss and seemed so natural had thrown her off balance as she entered the cabin. But Ethan had just gone to the fridge, taken out two beers, and handed her one, not wasting a minute as he made his way over to the living room area. There, Ethan had given her the newer Martin, and he’d taken up the Yamaha with its warm, rich sound. There had been no questioning, no fanfare, he’d just taken them out of their cases and handed one over to her. He took a seat at the opposite end of the sofa to her, but she could feel the heat of his presence as she hunched over the guitar, tuning it and telling herself she was doing this to help with the song. It was nothing.
She’d felt subconscious and stiff at first, trying out a few chords while Ethan did the same, but then they just fell into playing together, blending, echoing, and inspiring each other, finding melodies, singing softly, if they knew the tune, or just following it. It had been so long since she’d done something like this. So long. And never, which startled and unnerved her, had it been like this. Effortless, flowing. Intuitive.
And then it was “House of Clouds.” The song seemed to appear out of nowhere, working its way into their playing as Ethan led the way. She sang the first verse with him, a descant to his deep baritone voice. It gave her chills, the way it sounded, and as he moved on, singing a chorus, words he’d created since they’d talked, while she hummed and tried to follow his little modifications and flourishes. The words were moving, and she stopped playing after a while just to listen. He sang the chorus first.
Take me, take me, take me away,
Take me away with you
To the house in the clouds that we saw that day
Where all our dreams come true.
The song continued, verses spilling out, each one meaningful. When he’d finished, the room echoed with the guitar notes that resonated in the room and in her. He reached over the side of the sofa and retrieved some papers, holding them out to her.
“The lyrics,” he said. “Sing with me. Like you did the first verse. And the chorus.”
She took the sheets of paper from him, and after a glance through them, placed them on the coffee table in front of her. Ethan strummed the opening chord and launched into the song again. She was a little more self-conscious initially, worried about playing it correctly, as well as making out the correct words from his nearly indiscernible handwriting. Eventually, though, her nerves were lost in the absolute absorption of playing the guitar and singing with Ethan. It was a special connection, one that she was experienced enough to know was rare. And for a few moments, she allowed herself to sink into the feeling, to let her instincts, her emotions, run away with her. Only it felt like instead of going away, she was going toward. And it was that feeling that scared her the most.
She stopped almost immediately, her hands muffling the strings. There was no echo, only a dissonant sound of Ethan’s surprise.
“Are you okay, Kate?” His tone was gentle, sympathetic.
She shook her head. “Sorry,” she whispered. She swallowed down some of the tears that rose. Took a few deep breaths. “It’s difficult for me.” Her voice was still a whisper and she could hardly utter them.
Ethan put his guitar on the coffee table and took hers from her, setting it on the floor, to the side.
“Missy?” he said.
He took her hands, and she felt comforted, supported, but a moment later, she removed them and tucked them under her folded arms. Did she deserve comfort and support?
“What happened, Kate? Can you tell me that? I mean, I know she died. But how?”
Staring down at her feet, Kate took a few more breaths. “It was my fault,” she said finally in a low voice.
“How?” His tone was gentle, probing.
She bit her lip. How could she explain to him? Slowly, she searched for the words. “We were best friends. Since kindergarten, really. We somehow just knew that we were so much alike.” She looked up and gave him a weak smile. “You know?”
Ethan nodded. “You’re lucky to have had that.”
