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“Well,” Ollie says. “Do you want me to buy you out, Jackie?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know what I want anymore.” I pick up a pen and circlemaybeon the Post-it Raine left about the glowsticks.
That’s not entirely true. I want to undo any potential harm I’ve wished out into the universe. I want toknowthat I am good. That I’m truly not capable of the things I think. I want my first appointment with Martina to hurry up and get here already. I want to trust myself again.
“Well, I suggest you start thinking about it,” Ollie says. “Hopefully you’ll figure it out before she leaves.”
Nineteen
Raine
Jack
Are you home? There was a delivery for you.
I frown at the message. I can’t remember ordering anything other than a HitClip of Shaggy’s “Angel” I impulsively purchased after finding it on eBay, but I thought it had gotten lost in the mail. I reply, telling Jack that I’ll come down and get whatever it is once Clara leaves for her date with Róisín, but he replies seconds later to tell me it’s heavy and he’ll bring it up for me.
Two minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. “It’s open!” I call, unable to pull myself away from the kitchen table, where I’m tweaking the design for our St. Patrick’s Day pub quiz flier. “You can leave whatever it is by the door,” I say when I hear Jack come inside. “Thanks for bringing it up, by the way. It’s gotta be something I forgot I ordered, because I can’t think of what it would be.”
“I think you’ll want to see it,” Jack says.
“In a minute. I just need to finish this.”
“Raine,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “I really need you to come out here.”
“Oh, fine.” I save the file and shut the lid to my laptop. “What’s all the fuss?” I ask when I step into the living room, but as soon as the words leave my mouth, my eyes land on the guitar case in Jack’s hand.
“No,” I say, because I can’t be seeing what I think I’m seeing.
“Yes,” Jack says. He sets the guitar case on the coffee table and steps aside, grinning as he watches me.
“No!” I shout.
Clara, who has been applying her makeup in the bathroom, races into the living room and looks between us. “What happened?”
Neither me nor Jack answers her. “It’s not,” I say. “It can’t be.”
“It is,” Jack says.
“Will someone please let me know what’s going on?” Clara follows my gaze to the coffee table and gasps. “Oh my God.” She looks at Jack. “You found it?”
“It can’t be,” I say again.
Jack flips up the latches of the guitar case and lifts the lid, and the moment I see it, my breath catches in my chest.
“Oh!” I say, sure if I look away from the guitar, it will disappear. With all my other gear replaced, the guitar was the last thing on my list. I’d been delaying making a decision for as long as possible, because no matter how many guitars I looked at online, nice, new, beautiful guitars, I couldn’t narrow my choices down.
I look up, and as soon as my eyes meet Jack’s, I jolt into motion, crossing over to the coffee table and running my hand along the fretboard. I pluck at a string, and it’s horribly out of tune, but it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.
Jack stands nearby, and though I’m not looking at him, I can hear the smile in his voice. “The night we met, I set a bunch of Googlealerts and made a few posts online about your guitar,” he says. “I never had any luck, but the other day, I got an email from someone who said they thought they’d found it.”
“Oh!” I don’t know what else to say. I’m overwhelmed. This is... unbelievable. I want to pick up the guitar and tune it. I want to feel the strings vibrating beneath my fingers. But before I do, I spin to face Jack, who lets out anoofwhen I barrel into him and wrap my arms as tight as I can around his middle.
“Well, I’m off,” Clara says. “Don’t wait up. Not sure when or if I’ll be back.” She pulls me in for a hug and whispers, “I’m really happy for you, Rainey.” When she pulls away, the look she gives me has me unsure if she’s talking about the guitar or Jack.
As soon as the door shuts behind Clara, I lift the guitar from its case. I have no idea what to focus on first. The guitar? Jack? What is he thinking? I talk nonstop the entire time I tune the guitar, telling him every little thing about it. I’m not sure I’m even making sense.
Once the guitar is in tune, my fingers are in motion. The music comes automatically, a chord progression I’ve played a million times. The vibration of the strings beneath my fingers makes me feel more grounded than I’ve been in weeks. I know this guitar as if it’s an extension of my own body. My fingers know exactly where to go and what to do without my having to think about it. Sometimes, I feel as if I think in music. It starts inside me and comes out of my fingers and into the world. When I talk, I say things I don’t mean. I trip over my words. I get distracted. I’ll think I’ve said something when I haven’t. I’ll forget what I’ve said as soon as I say it. But music... music is the language of my heart.
