Chapter 8 #2
“Oh, how fun! My mother used to sing this with me.” Aunt Judy beams, clasping her hands together. “Just sit close to JD and share the music. The words are printed there on the sheet music,” she directs us like she isn’t scheming at all. The sheet music just happens to be there?
She’s good. What are the odds that I’d know this song? It almost feels like a test.
Daniel turns around on the piano bench and grabs a guitar. Aunt Judy counts him in like a pro, and I give them a couple of bars before I find the harmony.
I love this song, and she’s right, we sound good because it’s light and sweet. This is some kind of parallel universe compared with what we sang earlier, but it’s making me feel just as breathless.
She wipes a tear as we finish, and I can’t help but agree with the sentiment. Daniel returns the guitar to the stand and sits back at the piano.
“I might as well play what you both want.”
He starts playing “Hey Jude,” and I don’t know how I’ll survive.
I’ve heard him sing along in the car countless times but hearing my favorite song pour out of him one hundred percent solo completely unravels me.
I can’t tear my eyes away, but I can’t sing it with him either.
Not this one.
Does she love this song as much as I do? It’s like Daniel’s theme song in my mind. Maybe she thinks so too.
My eyes follow his hands as they move over the keys, past the bracelets on his wrist, landing where they always do—on the inked band around his forearm that forms a cross on the underside.
He does part of “Hey Jude,” then switches to “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” which is lighter but no easier on my heart. I risk stealing a glance at his face, grateful he’s not looking at me.
His eyes are closed except for an occasional peek at the keys, so I allow myself a minute to really study him—his profile, the curve of his mouth as he sings, his long, messy brown hair with gold flecks—significantly shorter than it was last night.
I can’t see the green and brown swirl of his eyes, but I see those too good to waste on a boy eyelashes nearly touching his cheeks.
His voice has a hum that resonates in my belly. I can feel him sing.
I feel it even when he speaks.
His arms and chest are bigger—thank you, Annie—for planting that seed of knowledge. Now I can’t unsee it. And that jawline looks more like a man than the “college guy” I met a year ago.
He’s been the perfect neighbor from day one, carrying boxes and unloading my books, but he’s so much more now. Maybe the best friend I’ve ever had.
He’s a constant in my life, at least for now. He knows what I need before I know it myself.
It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
I can say anything without gauging his mood or avoiding touchy subjects. His confidence makes me feel confident.
But he doesn’t need me.
Not like I need him.
I can’t let myself get used to this because he’s not mine.
I can’t keep him.
He’s the most reliable person in my life, which is why I have to stop blurring the lines. If we ever went there, we’d eventually have conflict and struggles like every other couple and all this would cease to exist.
Guys don’t drive their wives around in the middle of the night singing softly while they nap.
A man who’s been married twenty years doesn’t stay awake and keep watch during a thunderstorm.
They don’t bring your favorite ice-cold soda and put it in your hand without a word while you race a deadline.
They don’t work through your math homework with you or take a day off to get your car fixed.
This is friendship. We connected over music and being older college students. He experienced the same kind of challenges—balancing work and assignments—just ahead of me. And he helps me the same way I help Annie and Sam.
My attention-starved brain finds this incredibly attractive at the moment.
Maybe it’s my heart as well as my brain, but I hate to involve that naive little traitor.
One day we’ll have separate lives and responsibilities.
And it’s getting harder and harder to accept that one day I’ll have to let him go.
It’s going to hurt like heck when this season ends.
I stare in a blurry, melancholy haze until I hear him move into another song. I can’t stop my smile from spreading when I hear the Billy Joel lyrics he teases me with almost daily. He doesn’t usually get far enough into the song to say what I know is coming.
I don’t want to hear him sing those words, because I know he means them. Not romantically, but I know he does. I blink back tears, feeling them threaten to drop.
He loves me just the way I am.
Broke. Undecided on a career. Incoherent without cold caffeine. Mood dependent on the last song I heard. Procrastination queen. Bossy and overconfident at work, yet avoidant, passive, and somehow obligated to someone who isn’t equipped to manage his own life—much less participate in mine.
But I can’t cut people off and start over every time life gets hard.
My dad quit his job every time things didn’t go his way.
If he perceived the slightest threat to his ego, we moved.
Even if it meant less money, changing schools, and leaving our lives behind.
Somewhere along the way, he quit his family too.
I won’t be him.
I’m better than that, and Daniel deserves someone who doesn’t jump ship when things get messy, which is exactly what I’d be doing if I …
Anyway.
We just mess with each other too much. Once my car’s fixed, I can focus on keeping our friendship within proper boundaries, but mercy. If he keeps singing to me, I can’t be held responsible for my heart.
Aunt Judy claps in delight when he finishes, and I join her. My insides are humming. Singing with him or even just listening feels so intimate, it almost feels like cheating on Nathan. That sounds insane even in my own mind, so I won’t be sharing that with the class anytime soon.
“What fun! Lucy, I hope we can do this often. You’ll just have to be part of the family now. All right, Mr. Rockstar, go check on your uncles. See if they need water or something. Lucy and I will discuss our favorite musicians. Take your time.” She dismisses him with a wave of her hand.
That wasn’t even subtle. It’s hilarious and terrifying at the same time. Music teachers do not beat around the bush.
This woman is about to grill me well-done.