CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
There’s a hitch in the soft melody permeating the air as Gavin pauses — he doesn’t exactly stop, but pauses with his hand still holding his pick, poised, fingers still on the strings — and then his eyes lock onto mine. Deep, fathomless blue beneath a serious brow. I feel caught. Captivated. Studied, like something fascinating.
Mesmerized, my mother’s pop psychology book would say.
I think he’ll speak, but the pause lasts only a second, and in it, Gavin says nothing. I feel history unreel in that pregnant moment. A million unsaid things are spoken. Between Gavin’s gaze and mine, we tell a lifetime of stories.
He’s asking why I’m singing his song … when both of us know there’s nothing to be sung.
He’s asking why I’m so bold as to sing it now. And in my own way, I’m giving the only answer I now realize I have to give: that it seemed natural to sing it now, considering how much I’ve been singing it at home. How often I’ve been humming or whistling the tune at work, sufficient to invoke threats from Roxanne and invite delight from my girlfriend Maya. I sang now because I knew the words, because they came to me while hunched over my laptop, determined after our date Wednesday to fight through my block. Nothing came from my fingers that day or the next, and I left my writing sessions more frustrated than ever. And yet I seem to have written these words, even though they were effortless. From the aether, they simply came.
Gavin strums, his eyes still on mine. His fingers slide and squeak, and he strums again. He doesn’t look at the guitar; his fingers either know where to go, or he simply can’t look down and is getting lucky. But to me, the first notes are perfect. They resonate within me, vibrating some sort of energy that’s resided inside me for days, since I first heard this song’s skeleton.
After a few strums, after it’s clear that Gavin means to keep playing while watching me, I decide to continue.
He’s so serious. His jaw is set but not locked. His dark brow and handsome face are fixed, unmoving, dead earnest. His eyes stay on me and are almost a challenge, maybe a dare. As if I’m being asked if I’ll have the courage to sing again.
But it’s not reproach I see in Gavin. It’s curiosity. The same fascination I felt at first, now focused with a world of importance. He scoots away from the corner, finding some of the room’s light, and then Freddy, the kid he’d been talking to when I came in, is walking out from the back and standing with his arms limp, clearly surprised.
Gavin plays louder. Maybe fifteen seconds have passed, but to me it seems like all the time in the world.
The chorus ends. Instead of moving into verse, it repeats.
So I sing.
Softly, at first. But even though Gavin’s expression doesn’t change, I see something in him rise — something I could never articulate, but that’s obvious in his look beyond his unchanging irises and pupils.
Encouraged, I raise my voice. Gavin plays louder and slightly faster, bringing the sweet melody from its tentative first steps to the tempo I’ve heard before. His eyes smile, urging me on. I’m not a singer, but I feel drunk. A girl talked into doing something crazy in the heat of the moment, like a victim of lust. I’m losing myself in a way I don’t normally allow, somehow sure that when the song ends, I’ll regret it.
But I sing on anyway. I don’t have all the words, but I have more than I realized. I could have written down the chorus before now, but I only had the vaguest ideas for the verse. But like an improv singer in a challenge, I try to keep up. And the lyrics come — words I didn’t know until now. I lose myself in a fugue. I don’t know where this is coming from, but every time I pluck the next logical phrase from the air, I sense more words forming behind them. I mumble small pieces of the song, but as we move into another verse, the mumbles are fewer. Once I know the song’s story, it’s no longer difficult to write words on the fly. I’m telling a story to rhythm and rhyme.
It’s a story of a boy. A story of a girl. Two people destined to be together forever, but torn apart. And it’s about another girl, too. A new beginning. And when the song’s finale finally comes, I’m as surprised by the happy but bittersweet ending as the small crowd that has gathered to watch.
The guitar falls silent. My mouth hangs on the final note, but once it’s shut I feel stupid. Everyone has come out. Everyone. I see Chloe, who must find my vocals pitiable. I see Freddy, still in position. Danny is there. All of the waitresses. Terry the bartender. Even Dimebag and Richard, that weirdo who watches the front door unasked.
When it’s over, they clap.
I feel like I’ve just done a strip show atop the bar. This isn’t who I am. I’m not a performer, and I’m sure as hell not a singer, even in private. Lisa has been making fun of me for most of the week, telling me that I’d better not quit my day job.
I smile around at them, but I’m far from comfortable. I don’t want to run out, but I can’t stand here and accept their pity — the poor little waitress who, right here and now, is bearing her dreams for the world. But it’s not like that. I don’t want to be onstage and never did. I like music. I love the creative energy. But sing onstage? They can’t get that impression because I’d be mortified.
I won’t run out, but this must end. So I smile in thanks then press by Freddy, who’s giving me the oddest look. I can’t watch Gavin. I’d be terribly embarrassed to meet his eye. He’s possessive of his song; I heard him tell Freddy it was off limits for whatever they’re planning. I’ve heard him snap at Danny about it, too, when Danny asked him to try it out in front of the crowd. For someone who claims to want to write new songs, it’s strange that he’d shy from this one, but he clearly wants to. It’s his dirty little public secret, just like it’s my dirty little public secret that its constant repetition in my mind has now birthed words. We want to build walls, but we’ve both made our declaration.
I leave the room, hearing what has to be sarcastic clapping. I can only imagine what everyone must be thinking.