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“That’sexactly what it looks like!First, you play me, and then you eat me, and not even in a fun way.”
“Youthink you’re innocent here?Youcheated on me with mytwin brother.”Hescoffs. “Youcoulda told me you had feelings for him.”
“Why, so you could fight for me harder?”
“Yeah!”
“Don’tfight over me.I…Ican’t choose, soI’mnot going to.”
“Steph, we’ve been together for years.Throughthick and thin, good tours and bad, deaths and pregnancy scares and everything life has thrown at us.I’mthe one who proposed to you on stage atNYB.I’mthe one who wants you as something more than a piece of ass.Youhave to choose me.”
Thewaterworks flow freely and my voice pitches. “HowcanIchoose you whenI’mtoo scared to even look at you?”
Zakfalls silent at the other end.Iweep quietly, sniffling and sweeping away tears and trying to bury the memory of him eating me alive.
“Imeant whatIsaid,” he begins after a while in a hushed tone. “Ilove you.”
“Ilove you, too,Z,”Ireply fretfully. “ButIdon’t know if ‘Ilove you’ rights either of our wrongs.”
He’sdead silent for a minute until he coughs and sniffles. “Maybeit can.Eventually.”
Mybottom lip trembles.Ican’t respond with anything beyond a weak snivel.
Hesighs heavily, the sound muffled. “Seeyou at practice, then?”
Thetears renew at the fact thatIhave to face him, to work side by side with the one who took my life. “Iguess so,”Iwhisper before hanging up.
Itoss my phone aside, bury my face in my pillow, and sob my bleeding heart out.
* * *
Themusic room is dark except for a single lamp beside the faded leather couch across from a wall of guitars.Yellowlight glints in the strings, winking at me like old friends.Myguitar stands right before me in a familiar shade of deep green with a bright white pick guard.
Ilet it rest across my lap asIstare in wonder.Howmany songs haveIcreated with this thing?Howmany practice sessions has it taken a beating from?Howmuch blood and sweat and tears has it fed from?
Likeany other solo practice session,Ihook it up to a tuner.Afterfiddling with the tuning keys, a cord snakes from my lap to a small amp.
Alow hum lays all of my thoughts to rest.
Ibreathe in deep.
Then, my fingers dance across the fretboard, plucking out tunesIhaven’t played in well over a year, songs that, deep down,Iwas terrifiedIhad forgotten.
Butthey’re right there.They’vebeen waiting for me to come back this whole time.
JustlikeTimeless.
JustlikeZakandAdrian.
Myvision blurs whenIrecognize the chord progression thrumming from the amp—a songZakandIhad to work extra hard on to get the little details just right because we both thought something was missing.Turnsout it was a well-timed high note at the end of each bar that matched a certain noiseImade during our independent “jam session” whenZak’sface was buried in my—
Thecouch vibrates and my phone lights up, taking me away from one of many, many late-night sessions with my favorite guitarist.
Shannon
PracticenextTuesday@ noon.Bethere or be square.
Dree
