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“Since we’re talking about music, what made you want to learn to play the guitar?” she asks. I’m actually surprised we never talked about this before. Mostly over those couple of weeks, we were caught up in our day-to-day lives and didn’t discuss much else. Turns out we should have, but I guess that ship has sailed now.
“I actually didn’t know I wanted to play it, but when Ash moved in with us, he brought his grandfather’s guitar. One day he was outside behind the house in the trees, and I heard him. Of course I had heard guitar music before, but there was something different about this time. I asked him to teach me a few chords, and he did. My mother bought me a used guitar, and the rest is history.”
That day in the woods changed my life. My family knows this about me, Ash included, but what the world doesn’t know is that music became my voice. After struggling my entire life with words, not being able to speak, to be heard and understood and not be afraid, I finally found an outlet for my frustrations, my happiness, even my fears.
“Wow. That’s so great. How old were you when he moved in?”
“Thirteen.” I take another sip of the beer. She’s watching me, and I wonder if she looks at me like I look at her. She follows suit and picks up the fourth glass again.
My parents had a few different foster kids come and stay with us over the years, but once Ash showed up, he was the last one. He was broken in a way my mother was able to heal, and I’d like to think I was part of that healing too.
“I was twelve when I was handed my first violin.”
“Why the violin?” I glance at her fingers, imagining her holding one. She has long dainty fingers. I’ve seen them work their magic on her instrument, and I’ve also felt them dig into my hair and my shoulders, felt them run down my back.
As I shift in my chair to face her a little more, my leg falls to the outside of hers, so I prop my foot up on her bottom rung while picking up my glass to take another sip. I really need to stop remembering that night with her.
“My middle school required you to choose orchestra, band, or choir. I wanted choir, but my parents wanted me to learn an instrument. I’m petite now, so you can imagine that back then I looked years younger than I actually was. The violin is small and light.”
“Makes sense.”
On the bar, her phone vibrates. She has it in front of her placed face down, but when she turns it over, I see it’s the plumber.
“Hello,” she answers.
I watch as her face goes from hopeful to disappointed to resigned. Her shoulders slump forward, and I already know what they are telling her isn’t what she wants to hear. Two minutes later, she hangs up.
“So, I’m good to go home whenever you’re free to run me over there,” she says after she hangs up.
“The water is working?”
Large brown eyes rise to find mine. “Almost.” She says it in a way that makes me unsure if she’s trying to convince me or herself.
“What does that mean?” I tilt my head and take this moment to study the features of her face: sweetheart shape, almond eyes, perfectly arched eyebrows, bottom lip fuller than her top lip, and the hint of dimples I know make a huge appearance when she smiles.
“They found one crack that they need to repair, but he can’t get to it until after New Year’s. He’s short-staffed.” She shrugs her shoulders like it’s no big deal.
“So you still have no water. It’s turned off.”
“I’ll be fine. I can buy water.” She turns away from me and picks up the first glass. In two swallows, she finishes it.
If you had asked me yesterday morning how I felt about getting her back to her house, I would have told you it couldn’t happen soon enough, but today things are different. I can do this. I can be acquaintances with her, maybe even her friend. At least this is what I’m telling myself.
“Emma, no. Just stay with me.”
She looks down at her hands, which are sitting on the bar, and twirls the ring while she thinks. I know I haven’t been the most hospitable or made her feel all that welcome, but I don’t want her somewhere where she can’t even flush the toilet.
“I mean it, stay with me. It’ll make Moose happy.”
She looks back up at me, and there’s heavy wariness. “Are you sure?”
I nod.
A small smile slips onto her face. It’s tinged with a bit of mischief as she says, “Okay. But I’m cooking dinner.”
15
EMMA
