Chapter Five #2
“Sorry,” Charles says as he shakes himself loose of whatever spell my hair put him under. He lifts a hand and touches his slightly overgrown brown hair. “Your hair.”
“What about it?”
“It’s fun,” Charles says softly.
Fun.
Fun.
All right.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Charles shakes himself again, then abruptly turns around to lead me into the large living room. Windows line the back wall, giving a perfect view of the dunes and the sparkling ocean beyond. The sunrise from this room must be impeccable. “Want a drink?”
“Nah.” I set my case down and start to take out my guitar, but then I think better of it. “Actually, I will take a drink. Do you have liquor?”
Charles looks confused for the second time this evening. “Yes?”
“Cool. Seven and seven, please.”
“I don’t know what the hell that is.”
I sigh as I lean my trusty and very loved guitar against the sofa. “Show me your bar.”
Charles looks surprised again, which is starting to become a core part of our entire relationship so far.
I follow him to the bar in the corner of the large living room and press behind it, looking over the liquors.
No seven and seven for me since he doesn’t appear to have the soda for it.
But he has an unopened bottle of Lagavulin, which is better than what I’d initially hoped for.
“Can I open this?”
Charles makes a go on motion with his hand. “Help yourself.”
“You’re not much of a drinker?” I ask conversationally as I pour myself three fingers.
Charles shrugs as he watches me. “Most of it was gifts upon my retirement. The bar was here, so I figured I’d make use of it.”
I snort. “Figures, since this is an expensive bottle of whiskey.” I take a sip and appreciate the full flavor. “All right, let’s get started.”
We amble back toward the sofa, and after I’ve taken a few very good sips, I grab my guitar.
It’s been a long time since I’ve taught beginner guitar lessons.
The last time was probably River back in high school, and he wasn’t a patient student, nor was I a very patient teacher.
My mouth still tastes like whiskey as I watch Charles grab his brand-new guitar and set it on his lap, his hands exceedingly gentle.
Cupcake sits by the fire at the other end of the room, curled up in an extremely large dog bed that I could probably curl up in myself.
The atmosphere is warm and cozy, comfortable in a way I hadn’t expected.
“So, the first thing about guitar is that your fingers are going to hurt like a bitch until you build calluses."
Charles chuckles, deep and smooth. My stomach tightens at the sound, but I ignore it because I cannot like his laugh. “I’m used to building up calluses. Am I holding it right?”
I nod. “Yeah. Maybe loosen up on the neck a little.” Charles dutifully loosens his grip. “Perfect. You don’t want to be tight about anything here, except for pressing down the strings. Now for tuning, there are a lot of apps you can use until you can do it by ear, which takes a lot of practice.”
Charles’ eyebrows furrow, some of his hair falling into his face as he leans forward to inspect the guitar. “If I need to replace the strings?”
“Pretty simple with an internet search, but I can help. Well. It should be a bit from now, so if I’m still around, I’ll help.”
Charles glances up at my words. “You might not be around?”
I shrug. “Not sure how long I’m here for.”
“Okay,” Charle says, voice a little wary, kind of unsure sounding.
“Anyway, I printed some key chords out for you.” I shuffle around to grab the papers out of my guitar case and place them in front of where he sits to the side on the couch.
He glances down at the papers as I point out the key chords.
“Strumming will come after we learn the key chords in most songs. Now bar chords should be easy, because you have big hands and long fingers, but a capo is what we use when we’re playing deeper on the neck. That’ll be a few lessons from now.”
“And picking?”
Oh, he did some research. Cute. “Picking is a bit away. That’s a deft skill that not all guitar players master.”
“Can you do it?”
I suck my teeth and pick out a few notes, humming along with it. “I’m a gig guitar player, so I have to be able to do everything.”
“Can you play electric guitar?” Charles asks curiously.
“Electric, acoustic, bass, drums, piano… I can play it all.”
“Oh wow.”
“All right, so, let’s practice these chords until you’ve got them down.”
We practice for about an hour, and by the end I’ve finished my glass of whiskey.
The sun has set and the sky outside is a dark blue, and the orange of the fire glows on the other side of the room.
I close my eyes as Charles plays an A chord correctly, the pressure just slightly off.
I’m not having him use a pick yet, just his thumb so he gets used to the chords before mastering both.
He’s a good student. I don’t know why that surprises me considering he has to be after all his years playing football.
“You did good,” I praise him, knowing it can be rough at the start. Not everyone has the skill to teach themselves an instrument like I had.
Charles has the audacity to flush at my words. “Thank you. Can you play something for me?”
I frown. “Like what?”
“Anything.”
I hum thoughtfully and absentmindedly strum the strings.
I finally land on “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac because it’s one of my favorites and pretty easy to pick once I get going.
I don’t sing, because although I’m a gifted guitar player, God doesn’t give with two hands, so I can’t carry any sort of tune.
When I finish, I glance up to find Charles staring at me in amazement.
“Jesus, you make it look so easy.”
“I’ve been playing for over twenty years, so it is easy for me. You’ll get there with time and practice. You didn’t throw touchdowns right out the gate, right?”
“I guess not,” Charles admits with a wry quirk of his lips. “So I was thinking lessons on Tuesdays and Fridays might work?”
“Yeah, works for me, considering Ms. Marcia got me those church service gigs on Wednesday evenings. The Porters also hired me to teach their kids piano, despite me not even advertising it.” I pack my guitar away so that I’m not tempted to look at Charles too long.
“That’s the thing about growing up somewhere.
Everyone knows my story and knows my capabilities. There’s no hiding on Hope Island.”
“You’d want to hide?”
I glance over at Charles to find his mouth turned down, the stubble on his cheeks more pronounced than the day before. He’s so unfairly handsome that I feel a little angry and sick with it.
“I’ve spent my life hiding.”
Charles points at my head. “Hard to hide with a pink buzz cut.”
“Touché.”
We both chuckle.
I grab the guitar case and march toward the door with Charles bringing up the rear.
He makes a sound like maybe he’s going to offer to drive me home, which is a colossally bad idea, so I cut it off with “See you on Tuesday!” and stride right out into the evening air.
The stars are starting to come out and the frogs are singing in the marsh.
With my guitar slung across my back, it feels so familiar that my heart settles yet again.
Halfway home, I pause and close my eyes, tilting my head back toward the sky. Everything’s going to be fine.
The house is still lit up inside when I arrive home. I stomp my feet on the mat outside before pushing open the door. Dad turns around from the stove to check that surely it’s his son and not a burglar walking through the front door.
“Just me,” I say with a smile.
“I’m still not used to the hair yet. Is it permanent?”
“Semi.”
Dad smiles. “Ah. You should do orange in September for Halloween.”
“Haha.” I set my guitar down against the kitchen wall, then take a seat at the island. “What are you making?”
“Pop wanted some hot chocolate.”
That tracks. Pop has a sweet tooth the size of Mississippi. Without me even asking, Dad grabs a third mug so that he can pour me some. A few moments later there’s a steaming mug of homemade hot chocolate in front of me. My eyes water at the familiar smell.
“It’s safe for me?”
Dad tuts half-heartedly. “There hasn’t been gluten in this house since you were diagnosed with celiac in high school.”
“Just checking.”
“I know.” Dad whistles loudly, then a few moments later Pop wanders into the kitchen with a frown.
“I’m not a dog. You can’t whistle and expect me to come.”
“And yet, here you are,” Dad teases with a sparkle in his gaze.
Pop just snorts, kisses Dad’s forehead, then disappears toward the back porch. How did I end up with such an asshole when I grew up watching them? Maybe it’s something inside me that seeks out the worst things for me.
The hot chocolate is rich and smooth, comforting in a way that I’d almost forgotten.
We drink silently, until Dad lets out a very tired sigh.
I know you’re not supposed to play favorites with your parents, but Dad has always been my favorite.
Pop is my protector, the one who would kill someone for me, but Dad understands me in a way no one else ever could.
When I was a scared, lonely boy, he’d confided in me that he’d not been wanted either as a kid, but in a different way.
His religious parents had kicked him out of the house when they’d found him with another boy.
He’d been young and afraid and on the streets, and somehow the universe had sent him Pop.
As a kid that story had been so magical—Pop the white knight came to save him—but the older I got, the more I realized Dad had saved himself, solely by allowing himself to be loved after years of being told he was unlovable.
That’s the bravest thing someone can do, accept love after being taught they’re unlovable by those who should love them the easiest.
“I love you, kiddo.”
“I know.”
“Just reminding you. Ms. Marcia said you’re helping with the lantern festival?”
“Yeah, between the guitar lessons and gig she got me on the mainland. She needs help.”
Dad takes a thoughtful sip of his drink. “And the lesson with Charles?”
“He’s not totally inept.”
“Huge compliments from you.”
I snort, because he’s right. Patience is something I’ve learned over the years, it wasn’t something I was gifted with as a kid. “He’s paying well, so it’s in my best interest to make sure he learns well.”
“He and Pop became fast friends. They talk about cars, which you know.” Dad makes the universal over my head gesture. “It’s wild we have a Super Bowl winner living down the street. But he’s just some normal guy, honestly. He grew up in Nebraska, so he has down-home roots.”
“Down home,” I tease, as if Hope Island is similar to Nebraska cornfields. “I wonder how he ended up here.”
“Ask him.”
I scowl. “No, thanks. He was so weird about my hair tonight.”
“Must be a shocker to meet you with those blond curls and watch you shave them away.”
I purse my lips, which infuriatingly only makes Dad laugh. “Why are you laughing?”
“You look exactly like you did when you were constipated as a kid.”
“Great.”
Dad pats my cheek. “I love you, kiddo. I’m going to join your pop out on the porch before he becomes antsy and comes back in here to drag me out.”
I finish my hot chocolate in peace, rinse my cup out in the sink, then head toward my room.
After a very hot shower, I dress in pajama pants and curl up in bed, ready to zonk out for the evening.
Blessedly, I fall asleep fast. I wake early in the morning before the sunrise because my body knows just when to wake me up.
I brush my teeth and wash my face, having learned that I can’t just roll up to the beach looking a hot mess anymore.
I grab one of my ancient hoodies from the closet, tug it on, then make my way into the kitchen.
Luckily, Dad went shopping during the week and stocked up on all my old favorite gluten-free snacks.
I grab one of the breakfast bars and make a hasty pot of coffee.
Once my thermos is full, I head through the dunes with a beach towel under my arm, my thermos and snack bar in the other hand.
Rolling the beach towel out on the ground, I sit crisscross applesauce to watch the sun come up.
The coffee is still too hot, so I leave the lid off in hopes it’ll cool down enough for me to enjoy it before heading back home.
I should ask River to join me next weekend, like he did sometimes when we were lonely queer teens.
Our island has always been accepting, but it was never fun being the only two gay kids at the local high school.
Not that we got bullied or anything, everyone knew better, but it was still a lonely experience.
We’d tried dating in high school, but we’re just too good of friends.
River will always be my first of many things.
First best friend, first person besides my parents to see me cry, and my very first kiss.
The sun is just starting to break over the horizon when a familiar jogging figure catches my attention at the edge of my vision.
Charles is wearing those tiny running shorts again and expensive-looking running shoes, sweat dripping down his tight stomach.
Fuck him. He wordlessly stops in front of me and aims a curious look at the empty spot on the beach towel beside me.
“Well, take a seat.”
Charles grins as his breaths slow. He joins me on the towel, all tight muscles, sweat, and unruly hair. He’s quiet as he sits beside me, not chattering to fill the silence, for which I’m eternally grateful.
Just as the sun breaks over the horizon, I close my eyes and make my wish. Love, I wish for again, real and true. The kind that I can’t run from, the kind that comforts me, the kind that says this is a safe place to rest. Like the island and my family home, but in a person.
“Made your wish?” Charles asks.
When I glance over at him, he’s watching me keenly, and I fight hard to not flush under his gaze. “Yep. You?”
“Yep,” Charles echoes. “You’re right. It’s a good way to start the day.” He stands smoothly, not bothering to dust the sand off his hairy calves. My gaze gets stuck on his thighs for a moment before lifting the rest of the way up to his beautiful face. “I’ll see you on Tuesday?”
“Yes,” I agree, voice thick and traitorous. “At six.”
Charles salutes me before returning to his run.
I watch him, noting the slight limp in his run, no doubt the knee that he blew out in his final Super Bowl.
I lie back on the beach towel as the sun climbs up farther in the sky.
Pinks, purples, and light blues, the familiar color of the sunrise that has equaled safety to me for so many years.
I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing, but at least for now I’m home.