She smiles and brings it over to me. “I hope you don’t mind, but I snuck out to your grandfather’s cabin and got this a few weeks ago,” she says. “I found a place downtown that restores old instruments. They put brand new strings on, polished up the wood, made it look brand new.”
I draw the case up beside me and flip up the latches that hold it closed. Inside, the guitar looks pristine and shiny. Probably better than the day my grandfather brought it home from some thrift store in Alabama.
“I can’t believe this,” I say, trying to hold back my tears.
I run my hand along the grain of the wood, up and down the brand new strings. My grandfather would have been so happy to see his favorite instrument all cleaned up and ready to play like this. How did she know just how much this would mean to me?
“Do you like it?” she asks.
“I love it,” I say, pulling her into my arms. “Thank you.”
“I know you haven’t played in a long time, and you may not be ready to play now, but I thought this way whenever you’re ready, so is this guitar,” she says. “I thought maybe it could kind of be a fresh start for you, letting go of what happened and understanding that your grandfather loved you no matter what.”
I take the guitar from its case and pull the strap over my head. Even after three years, the instrument feels like home. I place my fingers on the strings and strum a chord, half expecting it to be out of tune. But it’s not. It’s perfect. As if it’s just waiting for me to start making music again.
Jo smiles, standing in front of me, watching.
“I’m so happy you like it,” she says. “You look so natural like that.”
“I do?” I ask, finding my smile for the first time in the past hour since I talked to my father. “It feels good to hold it again.”
“Want to play something for me?” she asks.
It’s been so long, but my fingers are itching to play. Something I haven’t felt in years. I try to think of what I might possibly remember well enough to play without practicing.
I smile, thinking of a Beatles song that was grandfather’s favorite. He always used to say this was the best song ever written. I play the song, “Something”, for Jo, accompanied by the incoming tide and the blowing of the wind.
My voice is dry and cracked at first, unpracticed at singing solos, but Jo sits next to me, her smile never dropping from her face. I watch her as I sing, realizing suddenly that my father is right.
I don’t deserve her. I’m going to mess this up, just like I mess everything up eventually.
I stop the song part-way through. I’m suddenly freezing cold, my hands numb on the guitar. I’m terrified. It’s as if my whole life has come down to this one relationship and everything hangs on me being the perfect guy that she needs for me to be.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, placing her hand on my leg.
I pull away, quickly lifting the guitar strap over my head and placing it back in the case.
“I don’t know, I guess I just don’t feel up to it yet,” I say. “Come on, let’s go home. It’s getting cold out here.”
“Okay,” she says, but I can hear the disappointment in her voice.
I’m a disappointment. I have been to everyone who ever mattered to me, and I don’t want to watch this whole thing go up in flames right before my eyes. I can’t handle it.
We get back in the truck and hardly say two words to each other on the way home, the air between us tense. And I know it’s my fault. I know I should say something to make her feel better, but I can’t force the words.
It’s ironic, really. I’m the one they call the life of the party. The fun one. But I can’t find any joy in this moment. It’s all gotten too heavy, too fast. Too serious. What am I doing?
When we pull up behind the bar, my heart is tight in my chest, choking me.
“Should we watch or movie or something?” she asks. “Or do you want to come over to my place for a while?”