“Comme ci, comme ca,” she says, which sounds like gibberish to me, but she seems pleased with herself as she explains. “So-so in French. I have the absolute basics of greetings, food, and asking for the bathroom in French, Spanish, and Italian because I went on a work trip with Mom one summer to visit an artist friend of hers. I knew more back then and thought I was so fancy, but I lost it because I never had a reason to use it after that.”
Suddenly self-conscious, I confess, “Shit, I barely speak English.”
“Whatever,” she says with a slight eye roll. “You sing it in a way that resonates with people, makes them feel something deep and powerful, and that’s a universal language.”
“Thank you,” I whisper huskily. Her single compliment means more than the truckloads of ones I’ve gotten in the past. Granted, those so-called fans were half-drunk and-or trying to get in my pants, but that’s beside the point. It’s because these kind words are from Willow that they mean so much.
“Did I see your guitar in the backseat?”
She’s being generous in calling the tiny bench a backseat. The only person who can fit back there is Cooper, Brutal’s stepson, and with another of his summer growth spurts, even he won’t be able to fit. But Betty does.
“Yeah.”
“Will you play while I take some pictures? Not for the blog but just for me.”
“Of course. Anytime.” I absolutely mean it. For her, I’d play concerts twenty-four, seven until my fingers bled and still keep going if she wanted me to.
I get Betty and climb back up on the tailgate, letting the curved wood rest against my thigh the way I have so many times before. I pluck at the strings mindlessly, watching Willow move around with her camera. She’s doing something to the settings, turning a dial and checking, then turning it again.
Click. Click. Click.
I start to softly sing an old favorite, The Man in Love with You by George Strait. It’s not one of his biggest hits and doesn’t even suit my deeper, grittier voice, but Mom used to play it and she and Dad would dance around the kitchen to its slow beat so it seems like sharing that is a good omen with Willow too.
I get lost in the music but never lose track of Willow. She’s a woman on a mission, and though I’m not sure what she’s capturing through that lens of hers, she seems pleased with whatever she sees. One song turns into two, then I don’t even know how many. But I play on, singing to her but also somehow becoming a part of what she’s doing every time she glances over and gives me one of those soft smiles.
A knot in my belly is loosening by the minute, and I want to stay here in this moment, just like this, forever. A melancholy melody plays through my mind, and I play it on a loop, forgetting all the covers I know in favor of teasing out what this new tune might be. One of hope lost but found in the most unexpected of ways, when it’d seemed least possible.
“That’s pretty,” Willow says. The first time we’ve spoken in probably an hour, but it hasn’t been uncomfortable at all. To the contrary, it’s been perfect, the two of us lost in our passions but together the whole time. It’s like a beautiful weaving of interests, of attraction, of perspectives merging through two vastly different mediums. “What is it?”
“I don’t know yet. It just came to me, so I’m still playing around with it.” I pluck out the melody again and Willow hums along with the notes.
“How about one of those strummed, vibrato notes after that to lead in to the next bit?”
I stare at her in surprise. “You know music?”
She laughs. “Obviously not, or I’d know what that kind of note is actually called, but I can hear what you’re doing and I like it. It’s pulling me in, right on the edge of falling, and a bigger, longer note will feel like crashing through the surface to the rest of the song.”
She’s fucking stunning—her mind, her heart, and that smile—as she uncertainly asks if I get what she’s saying.
Instead of answering in words, I play the melody over and add in a long vibrato note, letting the deep tone resonate before diving back into the tune again as I start to hum. She nods and