I swallow down the lump in my throat as I stare into Becka’s chocolate-brown eyes, her soft hands smooth against the calluses of my fingertips from years of playing guitar.
Without a word, I keep her hand in mine and guide her toward where the firepit is already blazing. My heart starts to slow the longer I feel her hand gripping mine, knowing she’s still here with me.
Me. Not the persona I wear for the rest of the world, but just me.
My heart nearly seized in my chest when she started looking at me the way everyone else does. Like I’m something greater than I am.
I’m just a man, desperate to be seen for who I really am.
And for the first time in years, I’m in the presence of a woman who’s done nothing but that from the moment we reconnected. I can’t lose the feeling of finally being seen now. It’s like turning on the light when you’ve been trapped in the dark for too long. It illuminates your whole world and makes you realize what you were missing all this time.
I gesture for her to take a seat and then move over to the built-in bar and grab us both a drink. Before I head back to her, I press the button under the bar that connects to the patio’s stereo system, and soft music begins to play. It’s an alternative mix that I put together over the past few days, my head lost in nostalgic memories of when Becka and I were younger.
A smile curves the corners of her lips, and her eyes light up when she hears the chords of a familiar Nirvana song that I’m pretty sure I played on repeat when we were in middle school.
“It’s really no surprise you became a musician. I should’ve expected it after your obsession with music growing up,” she says.
I shrug. I’m not going to deny it. “Music is the most powerful force in the world. It can make you feel sad, happy, hopeful, heartbroken. Who wouldn’t be obsessed with something like that?”
She watches me thoughtfully as I walk back over to her and hand her the drink. “Thanks,” she says, quickly taking a sip before diverting her gaze to the blazing fire in front of us. I sit beside her as the fire crackles, spitting sparks into the air while Becka stares blankly at the flames, clearly lost in thought.
I’m lost in her. The way the shadows accentuate certain features on her face. The way the light makes her eyes sparkle. The soft curve of her lips and the slow glide of her tongue across them after she takes a drink of her water.
My body is heating in a dangerous way—a way I choose to ignore, reminding myself that I need her as my friend.
A silence settles between us and—just like that night we talked on the phone—it’s not an awkward silence, but a comfortable one.
The crashing of the waves against the sand and the crackling of the logs in the fire are the only sounds until she asks, “Is that your guitar?”
I glance at her and see her gaze focused on something to my right. When I look over, my guitar case sits tucked behind one of the spare chairs.
“Yeah. It’s a habit to bring it with me wherever I go. I may be the lead singer now, but nothing soothes me quite like playing my guitar.”
“Will you play for me?” she asks, her voice not quite timid but also not as confident as I’m used to hearing from her.
“What do you want me to play?”
She shrugs. “Anything you want.”
Getting up, I grab my guitar case and then lovingly pull my instrument from the soft red lining. When I sit back down, the guitar rests comfortably on my knees as my fingers glide over the strings, pulling the pick from the place at the top of the neck where I keep it tucked under the strings. With the pick clasped between my thumb and pointer finger, I strum a couple of chords, the sound vibrating throughout my whole body and calming me in a way that nothing else ever has.
Well, almost nothing.
Becka’s coming damn close.
“You know, when my uncle gave me this guitar, I looked at him like he was crazy. I wasn’t very good at school. I’d gotten in a few fights, mostly because it was the only way to deal with all the feelings I couldn’t name from all the shit with my mom. I didn’t think I could be good at anything but taking care of my brother. I’d gotten really good at keeping Tris alive, even when it meant stealing money from my mom’s purse before she could spend it all on her drug of the week. I always made sure he was fed, warm, and safe—or at least as safe as I could make him.
“I don’t know if my uncle realizes that he saved my life the day he placed this guitar in my hands. He gave me something that I’d never had before—an outlet, a drive, a way to work through whatever I needed to without getting anyone else involved. He gave me something I could be good at if I practiced enough. He changed the entire trajectory of my life, and I don’t really know how I can ever repay him for that.”
Becka’s soft hand lands on my arm, pulling my blurry focus from the instrument in my hands to the woman next to me.
I didn’t even realize tears had formed in the corners of my eyes, and I easily brush them away before they’re able to spill down my cheeks.
“Your uncle is proud of you, Trent. Anyone with eyes who knows your family can see that. He was proud of you in high school well before you ever got famous, and I can only imagine how proud he is of the man you’ve become.”
Doubt snakes through my gut. “I don’t know about that. I wasn’t exactly a saint when we first started hitting it big.”
“Maybe not, but it’s part of what’s made you the man you are now. It’s not always about the choices we’ve made in the past that define us, but how we let them shape the person we turn into. For what it’s worth, I’m proud to know you and call you my friend.”
My gaze connects with hers. “It’s worth a lot.” More than I could ever tell her. Her friendship is saving me in a way I didn’t even know I needed.