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I pause for a moment in front of the door and fill my lungs with the damp evening air in anticipation. Strings of tiny lights hang in the shop’s windows. The owner, Bjornson, decorates based on the season. It’s summer, so the windows are filled with mini beach balls, ukuleles, and small, intricately painted conga drums. I swing the shop’s door open and let the familiar scents envelope me—varnished wood, sheet music paper, and cinnamon candles. My attention skips over a couple guys with guitars and terrible postures. Casual players. Their fingering is dang awkward, and they’re trying to show each other up with the only complex tune they know.
Doesn’t matter.
I shake off the judgment and check if there’s anything new in the case in the back corner where Bjornson keeps his new arrivals. Oh. A Gibson. I bought a similar one with my first royalties check. That is, I used the check for a down payment. Gibsons don’t come cheap. Nothing good does.
A girl by the cash register throws me a questioning look when I slide the case open and swing the Gibson off the hook—
My thoughts come to a tumbling halt as if a brick hits me in the back of my head. I whip around to stare at her. There is agirlby the cash register.
Sebastian, Bjornson’s usual helper, is away for the summer. Bjornson always mans the place himself in his absence. Sometimes he gets an extra temp during the holiday season, but it’s never a female. He always mutters that the last thing he needs is a pretty face that’ll spike purchases but also burden him with an increased number of returns after the shoppers realize that no amount of flattery from a pretty woman will help them play better.
This one though. What’s so special about her that Bjornson would break his lifelong rule? She looks to be at least twenty. Ginger hair in a rich, deep hue, curled and cascading over her bare left shoulder exposed by a green tank top. Glasses in thick, black frames hang on the tip of her nose. Reading a book, the girl twirls one of her curls. Deep in her thoughts, a slight frown pinching her eyebrows together. What a sight for sore eyes. Bjornson will have a lot more returns than he likes to deal with.
“We close in fifteen minutes,” she says without looking at me, her tone apprehensive.
“It’s okay.” A spark of irritation fleets through my mind. I’m not worth even a second glance. Then again, I’m not here to admire a beautiful girl or to talk. I plug in the Gibson, adjust the volume on the amp, drop onto the stool, and run my thumb over the strings to check the tuning. The guitar responds with a perfect E standard. Bjornson keeps all his guitars in pristine condition after every player, but it’s a habit for me to make sure it’s good. The jagged, restless anxiety in my mind starts to ease up. “Fifteen minutes will be enough.”
“But—” the girl starts again.
Still too wound up, I struggle to sound polite. “I’ll be out of here soon. I promise.”
I let my fingers loose. The sound circulates through me, starting at my fingertips, flowing through my ears, and patching every crack in my soul. Music. It can’t ignore me, betray me, tease me, use me, or chew me up and spit me out. It’s there for me, whenever I need it to lift me, build me up, or save me.
Once my tattered mood gets patched up, I glance around. The girl is still reading, back to ignoring me, and the other two players are gone. My stomach clenches, complaining about the void inside. I shouldn’t have taken out my anger on the poor tacos. I shouldn’t have reacted to the gossip at all, other than maybe to laugh.
Several of the Spanish guitar classics weave through my thoughts, and I go through each of them in turn, then mess around by interchanging the pieces and tempos. Bjornson insists I depress other customers with my playing, crushing their hopes and dreams of ever amounting to anything as musicians. I usually tryto come in the mornings to avoid the others, but I also stopped feeling guilty about those who hate to hear me play long ago. Music is my life. I will never apologize for who I am.
Doesn’t matter.
Nothing matters. Not the people I don’t know whose hopes and dreams I may be crushing, not the gossipers who don’t know my name, not the new girl by the cash register. Not even Shane O’Neal, Project Viper, or the reality that Shane did, in fact, steal my girl and I chose to let him do it.
Track 3
Court Jester Instead of Prince Charming
Jace
The Gibson hits the spot better than I expected, and I continue dissolving in music even when my mind and fingers meander to playing a tune that’s been bouncing around my mind for days. I know I could turn it into something worth playing at concerts, but the melody refuses to reveal itself to me all the way. I only hear pieces, which I play over and over, trying to glue them together. After today’s reports, though, the supposed hit is even more elusive.
“Don’t go down after that B-flat,” the girl says. “Go up instead.”
I silence the strings. “What?”
“You’re playing it wrong. Whateveritis.”
“How can I play it wrong? It’s my song, and I don’t even know what it should be yet.” And wow. She’s got a good ear, naming the notes like that. I’m a pro, but that’s not one of my strong suits.
Her eyes finally lift from her book. She gives me a long, contemplating look, then sighs and sticks a guitar pick between the pages. “Let me show you.”
As she comes closer, a sense of familiarity strikes me. Somehow I know her. More than that. I remember her. Bright and smiling, not frowning with lips pursed. Hm. I have a good memory for faces, and it drives me crazy that I can’t remember why she looks familiar. So much so I know I won’t be able to sleep until I figure her out.
She stands by my side. I get off the stool and offer her the Gibson. The girl eyes the guitar with the heaviest indecision I’ve ever seen, but she accepts it and takes my former seat. She strums the strings twice to get the feel of them, rubs the neck with her hand, and mutters, “This one is nice.”
“You’re new,” I state the obvious, hoping she’ll tell me something about herself to reconnect my memory wires.
“Kind of.” She pushes her glasses up her nose.
“Kind of?” I sit on the amp cabinet behind me, rest my hands on its sides, and watch her straight on. Streaks of pinkish gold run through her red hair. It’s natural, and I’ve seen that particular hue before. Many, many times. On someone else. Same as her upturned nose sprinkled by delicate freckles. It’s annoying, this incredible nagging feeling. It shouldn’t matter if or how I know her, but it does.
