34
Huxley
Current obsession: kissing Valentina Demarco.
I see her in the morning; I kiss her. I meet up with her between classes; I kiss her. I drop her off at her apartment; I kiss her. Though, those are my least favorite.
Another new obsession: calling Valentina Demarco.
Honestly, I never thought I would call someone on the phone so much. I barely even call my mother. Shit. I should probably do that. But the point is, I call Val every night.
Every. Single. Night.
And I make sure we stay on the line until she falls asleep. And even then, I keep the call going just to listen to her breathe.
Hey, I called it an obsession, didn’t I?
“When did you get into music?” she asks from beside me on the floor of my apartment, our heads resting next to each other while our bodies face opposite ways.
She’s lying on my arm and holding my hand, tracing my fingers.
Because if we aren’t kissing or talking on the phone, we’re together.
Just together. Talking about everything and nothing. But music has been a big topic.
“I got my first guitar when I was five,” I tell her.
“Really?”
I nod. “I couldn’t play worth a shit for a good four years, but I loved that thing.”
She gently traces over my pointer finger. “Do you still have it?”
She turns her head towards me, but I can’t look at her yet. “No.” Simple answer. But one I know she’ll probably dig into.
It’s not that I don’t want to tell her about my life. There are just some things that have happened that could scare her away. And I don’t want that. I want her closer to me, not farther away.
“What happened?” she whispers.
I grip her hand tighter, almost to support myself for this conversation. “My father smashed it in the backyard.”
I’ve never talked about my father before, and for very good reason. The man only claims me when he needs something. But that’s nothing new. The only person who didn’t do that was my mother. Then my siblings. And now Val.
“I’m sorry.”
I loosen my grip on her hand and move it back and forth. “It’s fine. I got a better one after that. That one I still have.”
I feel her still staring at me, but she doesn’t push the subject. And it builds something inside of me, making my chest tighten. The fact that she knows not to push a subject with me without me having to tell her makes me fall for this girl all over again.
“Do you name your guitars?” she suddenly asks. I don’t answer, but I catch a smile spread on her face. “You so do.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny,” I say diplomatically, and she laughs. God, I love that sound. “What about you?”
“Of course, I name my guitars.” I roll my eyes, and she laughs again. If I could wrap myself in a sound, it would be that one.
“No, I mean, when did you get into music?” She turns her head to look at the ceiling, so I finally turn mine to look at her. Now that I’ve kissed her, all I want to do is lean over and do just that. But I can’t. Because we are talking. And I need to control myself. Conversation is key and whatnot.
“I started piano lessons when I was three,” she tells me.
“Three?”
She nods. “My parents used to say that since I was able to talk, I was able to learn. And so they made me learn the piano.” She lines our hands up together and stares at how different they are. “The lessons stopped when I got to high school, but by then, I learned everything I could.”
Taking lessons is one thing. Starting at the age of three is another. Parents only do that when their child is a prodigy, or when they want them to grow up to earn multiple scholarships and play at renowned theatres. But something tells me that’s not the reason Valentina’s parents made her learn.
I intertwine our fingers, and she turns to look at me. “You’re one of the best players I know.”
She smiles, and my world realigns. “You’re one of the best players I know, too.” She rolls over suddenly and looks down at me. “Now, back to these names.”
“Oh god,” I groan, but she just smiles at me with excitement. Damn it. She has to know by now that all she has to do is smile at me, and I’ll do whatever she wants.
“Okay,” she says with contemplation. “The first one had to be something weird.”
“Why something weird?”
“Because you were practically a baby still. Have you never heard someone call out for their dog that they’ve had all their life, and it’s something like peanut butter or green spoon?”
My brow arches. “Green spoon?”
She rolls her eyes. “You get my point.”
I nod, even though I’ve never had a pet. I did want to call Hazel Willow when she was a baby. But that was because I didn’t like that she had an H name like me. Now, though, I wouldn’t change it for the world. She’s my sister, no matter what, and I’ll never change that for anything.
“What color was it?” Val asks, bringing me back to our conversation.
“It was blue.”
She stares down at me like she can look into my past and find the correct answer there. “Ocean.”
Oh shit. Hopefully, her powers stop there. “How did you know that?”
Her eyes widen. “Am I right?”
I just stare at her. “How the hell did you get that right?”
She squeals in excitement. “I actually got it!”
I push myself to sit up, and she follows suit. “You’re a psychic. You have to be.”
She just smiles as she crawls closer to me. “Okay. Next one. How long did you use it?”
“Until the one I use today.”
“And how long have you had that one?”
“Four years.”
“And how old were you when you got your second one?”
“Nine.”
“Okay.” She sits back on her legs to process all the information I’ve given her. “So you used the second one from nine till 18. Did you ever change the name in those years?”
I shake my head. “Nope. You have to guess.”
“Huxley,” she pouts.
Fuck me. “All right, fine. One time. When I got to high school.”
She smiles smugly, knowing she was able to get the information out of me. I just roll my eyes. “Okay. So from nine to 14 or 15, it was named…Wait, what color is it?”
“Black.”
“Black, okay.” She nods to herself, bringing a smile to my face. Then she stares into my eyes again, searching for the right answer. However, if she gets this one right— “Bruce.”
Oh my god.
I lean back from her a bit. “Okay, this is getting scary.”
She shrinks away from me as my words hurt her, but I don’t have it in me to comfort her just yet.
“Why?” she asks softly.
“Because that’s right.”
“You’re joking.”
I shake my head. “I’m not. I loved Bruce Springsteen at the time, so I named it after him.” Don’t say it. But I’m an idiot. “That and it was a better name than—”
“Bruise,” she whispers. Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head quickly. “I’m sorry. You said your father smashed your old one, and it just made it seem like—like maybe—”
“Like maybe he hit me too.”
Her shoulders fall and tense at the same time, a painful combination that tightens my heart. “Huxley.” My name sounds weak coming from her lips, but I can’t look at her now.
It’s not her fault for getting the name right. And I’m not upset with her for that. I’m upset with myself for not telling her sooner.
“You’re not wrong.” I try to look at her, but I can’t bring myself to look into her eyes when I tell her this. “I don’t remember a time when things were good between us, when he wasn’t mad at me or my mom. Or taking something from us.”
My jaw clenches, and I turn further away from her.
I’ve heard of people, guys specifically, turning into their fathers.
If their father was a drunk, they were a drunk.
If their father was abusive, they became abusive.
And no matter how much I don’t want to believe that, there’s a small part of me that does. What if Val does too?
A gentle touch under my chin brings me back to life. Val pulls me to face her, her eyes soft and understanding. She takes in my features before leaning in and kissing me gently. Her fingers brush through my hair so softly that all of my fears melt away with her touch.
“I’m sorry he hurt you,” she whispers. “But the plus side is that he taught you how not to be a man. And I’m one hundred percent sure that you’re a million times better than he is. And that you treat people better than he ever did.”
I think the thing I feared the most when I started falling in love with Valentina from afar was that if I got to know her, we wouldn’t connect.
We wouldn’t think the same way or have anything in common.
And I definitely didn’t think when I told her about my father that she would turn it around and tell me that I’m nothing like him.
She’s never met him, and dear god, I hope she never does.
But even still, she’s so confident about me not being like him.
All because I told her he used to hit me.
All because she knows he smashed my guitar when I was younger.
That’s all it took, and she believes I’m nothing like him. I just wish I believed that too.
A hint of fear fills her eyes the longer I stay silent. But she has nothing to worry about. What she said only made me love her more.
I lean forward and press my forehead into hers.
We don’t move. We don’t speak. Because I just want to be with her, and I think she knows that.
“What was the other name of my guitar?” I ask quietly, finally breaking the silence.
She shrugs. “Probably Lola.”
And I laugh. After all that, she managed to make me laugh. And I love her for that. “Why Lola?”
She shrugs again. “Or Lily or Lucy. I don’t know, it just seems like every man that gets a guitar gives it a female name that starts with L.”
“That may be true, but not for me.”
“Then what did you rename it?”
I stare at her, the name weighing heavily in my chest after everything we’ve talked about. Looking at her, the name feels special, stronger. “Hope.”
She smiles. “I like that name.”
A smaller silence passes between us before she glances over to my guitar in the corner. She pushes herself to stand, heading over to it. “Okay. Now for this one.”
I’m so in a daze from this moment that I almost say the name out loud, but I catch myself before I can. “That one doesn’t have a name,” I say quickly.