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“Something that’s yours,” Dave says.
“I don’t have anything of my own,” she says. When the color rises in her cheeks, she looks away, gaze on the strings vibrating beneath her fingers.
Dave laughs. “You’re an awful liar, darling.”
Raine sighs. Her fingers still, and I miss the music as soon as it stops. When she crosses her arms over the top of the guitar, she seems so much smaller than she did moments before. I want to pokeher in the side where I know she’s just a bit ticklish and keep her from folding in on herself.
“I don’t have anything good,” she says.
Dave takes a long pull from his pint. “You’re gonna have to get over that, darling. There’s no room for that sort of doubt in the creative life. You’ve gotta believe in what you make, otherwise why would anyone else?”
Raine opens her mouth to say something, but no words come out. Dave raises his eyebrows, and after a moment in which the two of them stare at each other, Raine says, “How about some Niall Horan? Irish singer. Irish song.”
“Oh, all right,” Dave says. “But don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing. Expect me to ask for an original song every time I come in here from now until you leave. I’ll wear you down eventually.”
I wonder if I should tell Dave not to push, but then she sits up and starts strumming. The rhythm is so different from the soft melody she was playing before. She seems to sink into the song as she plays. She closes her eyes, as if to shut out everything else, and when she does, the uncertainty written across her face eases.
I think of the night we met and how Raine told me she loves anything that gets people moving. I glance at Dave, and there it is, a head bob, a sway. When she begins to sing, I want to look around and see who else is listening and what they think of it, but Raine has me enchanted. The music slips from her fingers. It spills from her mouth. It lights her up and works its way into the room, breathing a soft glow into the air around her, like the aura of a candle flame.
Watching her reminds me of how tattooing felt before OCD ruined it for me. Before things got bad, there were so many ways I could slip into that state of mind where time ceased to exist. Drawing up a flash sheet. Working on a custom design for a client. The best, though, was whenever I tattooed a client who could sit well. I’d get to work, and after a few minutes I’d find myself in this headspacewhere nothing existed but skin and ink and the machine in my hands. I could always tell when the client was there too. The endorphins take over, the conversation goes quiet beneath the buzz of the machine, and yet... there’s more connection for me in that moment than any other.
Watching her play makes me realize I so rarely feel that way anymore.
The song ends. Scattered applause sounds from around the pub, but Raine doesn’t open her eyes right away. I can tell when she’s brought herself back to the real world, because the soft dreamy look on her face is shaded by tension. She blinks her eyes open and smiles, as if she can tuck away the feeling for later.
“Bravo, darling. Bravo,” Dave says.
Raine catches my eye, and her brow furrows. “What’s so funny?”
I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Nothing,” I say.
“Then why do you have that look on your face?”
“Like what?”
Dave laughs. “You’re grinning like a fool, Jackie.”
“That’s one of my favorite songs,” I say. Somehow it feels true, even though I’ve never heard it before in my life.
Raine gives me a skeptical look. “I had no idea you were such a big Niall Horan fan.”
I shrug. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Raine Hart.”
She shakes her head. I pretend I don’t see the amused look Dave gives me.
I’m starting to think thismost professional coworkerthing is going to be even more challenging than I expected.
—
After Dave leaves, Raine asks if she can work in my office, and I don’t see or hear from her for hours. I make drinks and do inventory andspend a half hour searching resale sites for Raine’s guitar but find nothing. When five o’clock rolls around and I haven’t heard a peep from her, I go into the kitchen and, after making sure all the knives are in the right place, put some of the brown soda bread and chicken schnitzel Róisín made on a plate.
I hear music as I approach my office. The door is slightly ajar, so I pause for a moment to listen. When I finally step inside, I find her with her back to me. She sits in my chair, singing along softly to whatever song she’s playing on Dave’s guitar. On the floor is a giant corkboard. Polaroids and newspaper clippings and postcards are artfully arranged on half of it, but the other half is bare. Messy piles of papers and photographs cover most of the office floor. I’m sure Raine’s got a method to this madness, but I have no idea what it is.
“Have you eaten?” I ask.
Raine takes no notice of me. I step carefully over the piles on the floor until I’m standing behind her.
“Raine.”
