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Setting it down in my lap, I get situated, reacquainting myself with the instrument. I can’t even remember the last time I touched a guitar. That last summer we had, probably. Not long before I played piano for what would be the last time, unbeknownst to me.
I run my fingers over the strings. “So you met my sister.”
A beat passes, then, “She visited me in the hospital.”
I nod, confused more than ever now having had confirmation, but also, knowing not to push it with him. There’s just something very fucking skittish about Shawn, making me tread lighter than I’ve ever tread before.
“Her mom…your mom…she was my nurse. I guess she was watching her for the day, and at one point she snuck in my room to…hang out or whatever.”
A soft humored sound leaves my nose. “That’s Phoebe for you.”
He nods, fiddling with the bracelet now peeking out from under his sleeve. The only shock of color not only on him, but in this drab hallway with the white walls and white doors and gray carpet.
“Your mom got me in here,” he says after a long moment.
My fingers pause along the fretboard. “She did?”
He nods. “Like I said,”—his eyes lift to mine, and he nods at the guitar in my hands—“that’s all I have.”
Comprehension rolls through me, and I nod. “I see.”
“I didn’t want to get clean.”
“So why did you? Take her up on this, I mean.”
His throat bobs with a swallow and he looks away, eyes darting around the empty hall unseeingly. “I was dead when they brought me in.”
A chill runs down my spine.
His mouth opens, but closes. Whatever he was about to say, he’s taken back, and when moments pass without any further elaboration, I can’t help but wonder if there’s more to it than that.
There has to be.
But for whatever reason, he’s not talking.
Can’t say I blame him. He doesn’t know me. And the dude’s clearly got trust issues for miles.
So rather than push for more, I inhale deeply, and for the first time in two years, I let music fall from my fingers.
It hurts, but not as badly as I thought it would.
I’m rusty as fuck, especially seeing as guitar was never really my instrument of choice. I didn’t nurture this potential, not like I nurtured piano.
But it’s exactly why I’m able to do this.
Play again.
Feed that thing inside me that’s been dormant for so long, finally peeking out again, yawning to life.
It’s still there.
Just like Jeremy said it would be.
It’s still inside me.
It hasn’t abandoned me too.
Throat thick, I slide my fingers down the frets, using my other hand to strum and pluck, just feeling it out. I fuck up a lot, but where with piano, I was always trying to keep things perfect, I find myself just rolling with each flat note. Each stutter. Each whine.
