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Laurel’s gaze finds the mess of what others might call my songwriting efforts. She walks over to the rows of sheet music and lyric-smeared papers on the floor and studies my scribbles. Her fingers comb through her hair in what appears to be excitement. “What’s this?”
“Garbage.” We’ve considered recording some of these, but most of the songs here are worthless.
“Garbage?” She glances at me in disbelief. “That can’t be right. Are these yours?”
“Most of them. Some are a team effort.”
Laurel crouches in front of the papers and shuffles them around. “Do you guys write all your music by yourself?”
“Yes.” Project Viper does, and so do we.
“I love these lines over here.” She brushes her fingers over the top of the page sticking out from a pile of others. “Would that we—”
“Leave it alone. Those lyrics are beyond salvaging.”
“Okay.” Laurel stands up, although she does steal one last glance at the mess. “That.” She points at my guitar. “That’s a 1975 Tele Blonde. They’re kind of rare these days. May I?” She wipes her hands on her pants and reaches for my Blondie.
I restrain a smile as I swing the strap over my shoulder and drape it over hers. Have a go, Laurel. Have as many as you want. Just play. I grab another guitar and start the melody that brought us here. “So, how did you say it should go?”
She groans, and all her discomfort comes out on full display in the way she turns sideways and bounces on her feet.
“Stop stalling.” I gently whip her ankle with the guitar cable.
“Fine!” Laurel grabs her cord and whacks me on the thigh, quite a bit harder than I did, only making me smile. “Start that tune you played at Hal’s, and when you hit the spot where you get stuck, pause and listen. I’ll show you.” A pronounced red hue floods Laurel’s cheeks, but she holds her chin high. Red-headed, embarrassed defiance. The usual spitfire description doesn’t fit her at all. She’s so much more. A rebel hides under her mask of cool indifference. She needs to let it out.
“Ready?” I force my eyes away from the tour they’ve taken over the curves of her cheekbones down to her neck and collarbones. “One, two, three—” I strike the first note.
When I approach the riff I was developing wrong, Laurel glides in. “Like this.”
I watch her hands and listen. Laurel plays for me, humming along and repeating the phrases several times so that I’ll remember the progression. Again, her solutions are so simple, but the punchy, obvious chords are exactly what the song needed. She’s a Halifax, all right. Like father, like daughter—geniuses with music.
“What?” Laurel watches me with concern. She must’ve caught me frowning, upset with myself for wasting time for weeks and falling for the rabbit hole of looking for a miracle in complexity.
“Nothing. It’s really good. Let’s run through it again.”
I start over, and she plays with me. Laurel smiles wide, and that’s… That’s pleasure on her face, pure and simple.
“Hold on,” I interrupt her. “What’s with your wimpy bends? Give them a little more push, and use your three middle fingers for power, not just two.”
Laurel gapes at me. “You do know I have the best teacher in the country? My bends are fine.”
“Your father may be the best teacher, but that doesn’t make you the best student. Just do it. Half a step, then a whole step, both up and down. Any note.”
She laughs, and I love it. There’s no holding back, no defenses in her open, hands-on-her-cheeks laughter. What will it take to convince her I’m worth her time? Unlike all my previous girlfriends, Laurel won’t only listen, she’ll create magic with me. Potentially.
And she follows my stuck-up instructions. Her bends are much more fluid and robust, but Laurel hisses at the end and blows on her fingers. “That’s exactly why I don’t play them right.”
“You’ll never succeed if you’re afraid of a little pain.”
Glaring at me while fighting another smile, Laurel fires off an incredible lick. “Who needs bends anyway?” She continues playing, moving in a circle around me, lassoing my legs with the guitar cord.
Welcome back, Miss Halifax. Enjoy your resurrection while you destroy me. You’ve hidden for years, but you still crush me with your talent. You might be crushing my heart too. An image of us spending evenings on the couch, playing guitars and pretending to watch movies, won’t leave my mind alone. Laurel knows what music takes— That may not matter. She sees me as someone who needs fixing. Or healing. That’s not what I need. I need her attention, her laughter, her curious glances, even her irritation, but I don’t want her pity. Winning her will be beyond difficult. I’m in!
Laurel slides to the windows to peek through the blinds. “Will your neighbors complain?”
“No.” I turn the volume up two notches. I don’t usually blast music past noise ordinance hours, but if anyone gets offended, gift baskets and gift cards go a long way in terms of apologies. “Keep playing. I won’t tell anyone that you broke your oath to never play outside your house again.”
“You’d better not.” She reaches toward me with one hand, fingers fisted except for the pinkie.
