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Iris leads us through a door called “The Laundry Entrance,” which also comes with a snicker from Ashton and a playful smack from Iris.
I’m Team Ashton when we enter a ridiculous atrium that has to rival Olympus itself.
Isabel’s eyes are huge as she takes in the gorgeous space, but mine immediately lock on a vintage Martin guitar leaning against a stand like it’s just another decoration.
“What’s wrong?” Iz asks when I freeze. She follows my gaze and her smile says it all. “I knew it. You still have the music bug.”
“No. It’s just, that’s at least a twenty-thousand-dollar guitar,” I mumble.
“Twenty-two, actually. Good guess,” a voice says, and my pulse races at the appearance oftheKyle Alexander. He doesn’t look anything like I expected, though. Well, physically he does. Short salt-and-pepper hair with a matching beard, athletic build, distinguished features that make him look like a business god you wouldn’t want to mess with. But there’s a softness and light in his expression I wasn’t ready for. The guy looks… kind.
“Do you play?” he asks.
“Not really,” I say at the same time Isabel says, “Yes.”
I give her a hard look, and she raises her brows in challenge.
“I used to,” I clarify. “Haven’t in years.”
“Hi, I’m Kyle. You must be Tristan and Isabel.”
We nod and shake the hand he offers, then watch in stunned silence as he removes the guitar from its stand.
“Bought it at a charity auction a while back thinking I’d learn, but never got around to it.”
He hands it to me, and I have no choice but to take it.
“I’m sure it’s dying to be played for real,” he says with a smile.
My insides are shaking as I grip the guitar in my hand, not sure what to do next. “Oh. Um, like I said, I haven’t played in years. Lost all my callouses,” I say, flexing the fingers of my other hand.
“Just try. It’s got to be like riding a bike,” Isabel says.
I glance at her, blinking hard as I brace through a wave of mixed emotions. She’s acting like it’s so easy. Like, I can just pick up where I left off and finish songs I started writing five years ago. But it’s not just the music I lost. It was an entire era. An identity. A passion. A purpose. Playing again wouldn’t be like riding a bike. It would be like being resurrected from the grave.
And it scares the shit out of me. If I opened the vault, what would come staggering out? A miracle or a zombie?
I’m not ready for the answer when four expectant gazes lock on me, but what choice do I have? Am I really gonna make a scene by refusing the kindness of a stranger who has offered to help save my life?
There’s no strap for the guitar, so I lower myself toward the whitest leather couch I’ve ever seen, stopping mid-crouch with a wince.
“Do you mind?” I ask.
“Of course. Sit,” Kyle says, waving me down.
I settle into the cushion and balance the guitar on my thigh. One strum, and I cringe at how out of tune it is.
“It’s not supposed to sound like that, is it?” Kyle says with a laugh.
“No,” I say, fighting a smile. “Hang on.”
I do my best to tune by ear under the watchful eye of everyone in the room. The tension mounts in the silence, and I feel the pressure building in myself at the coming test I’ve been anticipating and dreading since I returned home. That first day, I couldn’t wait to hold a guitar again. By the second, I was glad my parents had gotten rid of it. Everything else had gone to shit, and I wasn’t sure I could handle learning I’d lost the music too. I’m still not ready to find out, but there’s no way out of this situation without drama I don’t want.
The tuning is probably off slightly, but as long as the strings are tuned to each other, it should be fine for this little demonstration. Who knows if I can even play the thing? I haven’t touched a guitar since the night before I had to report for my sentence.
My fingers naturally find a G-chord, though, and when they instinctively shift to a C-chord, then an E-minor, the knots in my stomach smooth into an exhilarating rush. The chords become rhythms and the rhythms string together in an improvised song. Soon, I venture away from the easy Key of G and flex into the Key of B. I’m relieved when that too feels natural. D, A, no matter what I try, the fingering comes back, even the bar chords, although they’re not as clean as they should be since losing the finger strength I once had.
“Play something for real,” Isabel says in a soft voice. “One of your songs.”
