Chapter 4
four
Later That Night
The lock clicks behind me.
Light from the lamp pools across the table. The air is still and my apartment is exactly how I left it, as if the greatest night of my life didn’t even happen.
My keys skid across the counter, knocking into the wall. I stand staring at nothing much longer than I should before managing to move and drop onto the couch.
For a moment, I let the entire evening play back.
Zane pulling me from the bar. Strumming the Breedlove in his office.
The moment of disbelief and the second where everything settled and I knew I was meant to be there.
Chords carrying farther than I expected.
My voice reaching the back of the room without strain.
The way everything held together instead of falling apart.
Of course, there was the reaction of the crowd. People chanting my name. Throughout my bartending shift, dozens of people came up to me wondering where my next gig was.
My eyes shift to the pile on the table and reality pulls me out of it.
Paper stacked unevenly, corners curled, some opened, others waiting their turn. Ugh. The totals sit in my head. Sadly, nothing about tonight erased my goddamn reality.
Across the room, my precious guitar rests near the window, a thin line of streetlight running along its edge.
I pick it up and sit on the floor, back against the couch. The body settles into my lap without adjustment. My hand slides along the side and catches in a shallow dip worn into the finish.
She made it.
Not in one night. Years of it. Evenings stretched across the living room, her foot tapping against the floor, keeping time whether she played or not. She never rushed a song. Let it breathe. Let it find its shape.
I didn’t understand it then, but I do now.
My fingers rest on the strings, waiting. The rhythm shows up before I start, steady, familiar, already there under everything else. She used to tap it into the wood when I drifted. Two fingers, same spot every time.
I tap it once, without thinking, and start to play. Conjure up the memory of her and the last time she held this guitar.
We were in her room with the curtains drawn halfway because the light hurt her eyes. Her fingers moved slower, each note placed instead of flowing through her soul.
I crossed the room and sat beside her. She turned the guitar toward me, guided it into my hands and I played for an hour. When I tried to give it back, she wouldn’t take it.
“Keep it.”
I shook my head. “No.”
“It’s yours.” She gripped my wrist. “Don’t let it sit idle.”
I haven’t. Not once. Even on days after she died when I couldn’t bear to touch it, I did. My hand moves across the body now, tracing the marks she left behind, tracing where the wood gave over time. Nothing about it feels worn out.
It’s been lovingly used. There’s a difference.
Fucking cancer. It took more than her life, an unbearable loss. She was my best friend. Greatest cheerleader. Biggest fan.
One terminal diagnosis and our support system disappeared.
Treatment wiped out her life savings. She had to sell the house and most of her possessions to ensure I wasn’t saddled with medical debt when she passed.
There was just enough left over to keep me going for a few months, but it’s mostly gone now.
I play again, slower this time, letting the rhythm settle deeper before building on it. Eventually, I rest my palm lightly over the strings, cutting the sound. For a second, I sit there with it, quiet.
My mother didn’t give me this so I could keep it safe. She gave it to me so I’d play it.
My thumb finds the worn spot again. I tap it once, then start back in, stronger this time, no hesitation, no holding back. The groove stays steady under everything else.
It always does.
I move into a progression I learned sitting across from her. My timing used to rush. She would stop me mid-strum, shake her head, send me back to the start.
“Again.” Always calm. Certain.
My fingers settle into the pattern without resistance now. The chord changes land where they should. I stop only when my phone buzzes against the cushion.
Lissa. My best friend who lives in Hawaii always checks to make sure I’ve gotten home safely after a shift.
“Girl, you won’t believe the night I had,” I blurt out, skipping formalities when I see her face fill my screen. Lissa’s been my rock since….well, forever. Even more so since Mom passed.
“What happened?” she asks.
I shift, keeping the guitar where it is. “Zane asked me to open.”
“For who?” Her eyes widen.
“Lake Lyon.” I bat my eyes at the screen and dive into the tale of my impromptu performance and how Zane promised more gigs at the club.
“It was terrifying and amazing. Playing on a real stage for a crowd who loves music? Incomparable. It’s what I was born to do.
For a minute, I forgot all about the mess I’m in. ”
She beams at me. “I wish I could have been there, it sucks I live two thousand miles away. I’m sorry you’re struggling.”
“Yeah, I’m in my destitute era, big time. Rent’s due, and I’m short. Like, ‘eating-ramen-once-per-day’ short. Bartending and street performing don’t cover my basic bills. Seattle’s so crazy expensive.”
The weight of adulting presses down hard on my shoulders.
I can practically hear Lissa’s brain ticking. “Okay, so here’s the short-term plan. This week, you’re gonna busk during every open spot you can slip into. Milk it and then some. Secure your bread.”
Huh. It’s simple, but genius. I should have thought if it sooner, but I haven’t wanted to seem greedy. There’s a certain protocol to follow until you’ve paid your dues, which I have, so I’m already mentally scheduling myself. “You think it’ll work?”
“Absolutely.” Lissa’s confidence in me means everything. “You’re talented and people love you. Plus, it’s Seattle. Tourists eat an indie music vibe up with a spoon.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Also,” Lissa leans closer to the screen, “don’t sit around waiting for him to ask again. You go to Zane. Tell him you’re available and ready for any gigs he can give you.”
I hesitate. “You think I should?”
“Yes. Closed mouths don’t get booked. Or paid.”
Her enthusiasm buoys my spirits. By the time we hang up, I’m armed with a game plan and a sliver of optimism. Sure, the next few days are gonna be a grind, but I’ve faced worse.
By the time I crawl into bed, I feel better.
I can do this.
I’ll busk my little heart out, make rent, pay some bills and keep chasing my dream. It’s what Mom would have wanted.
Honestly, it’s what I want too.