34 #2
She looks back at me. Please don’t read my mind now.
“Oh.” I hate how small her voice sounds. “Why not?”
Because it’s named after you and you’ll definitely think I’m insane if I tell you that. “Just didn’t feel like naming it, I guess.”
I hate lying to her, but I don’t want to scare her by telling her that I named my guitar Valentine the same day I called her Valentine for the first time. She’d think I’m crazy. Or a stalker. Or an obsessed man who had to find a way to make her his.
Fuck. That last one is me to a T.
“What are you doing?” I ask her. She’s just staring at the guitar. Unmoving, like it put her in a trance or something.
“I feel like I’m not allowed to touch it,” she says quietly.
Why would she think that? “Of course, you can touch it.”
She finally looks back at me. “It means a lot to you, Huxley. I don’t want to ruin that.”
“You couldn’t,” I say honestly. Because it’s true. She couldn’t ruin anything. Hell, she could throw the guitar out the window, and I wouldn’t care.
She turns back to the guitar, not believing me.
“Here.” I push myself up and walk up behind her. My right hand slides on her waist while I grab her left hand. Together, we reach forward, and I place her hand gently on the neck of the guitar.
“See,” I whisper in her ear. “You couldn’t ruin anything.”
She slowly traces the strings, her fingers bumping mine occasionally. “Play me something.”
I don’t hesitate. “What do you want?”
She hooks her first finger with mine. “Play me something that will make me smile.”
I press my lips up to her ear. “Yes, ma’am.”
I kiss her cheek, then grab both her hand and the guitar before heading over to the couch. She sits against the arm of the couch to watch me, but I can’t look at her while I play this song. For starters, I just learned it. But also, I learned it just for her.
If you had told me even a few months ago that I would have learned an Ed Sheeran song and sang it, too, I would have laughed. Don’t get me wrong, the guy makes good music. It’s just not my type of music. But it’s hers.
Although I do think I’m convincing her of becoming an ‘80s rock fan. Until that day happens, I’ll learn pop songs and sing them to her. Just to see her smile.
I stare at my hands the entire time I play, unable to look at her. I want to sing every lyric to her, hoping she would see in my eyes that I mean them, but I don’t think I could handle her not feeling the same way, so staring at my hands, it is.
I finally risk looking at her when I finish the song, and my heart drops. Tears roll down her cheeks quickly, her arms wrapped tightly around herself like she’ll fall apart otherwise.
“Valentine.” I move my guitar out of the way so I can get closer to her. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
“You’re just so amazing, Huxley Adams,” she whispers. “And I don’t know how I got lucky enough to be in your presence.”
“That’s why you’re crying? Over my voice again?” I wipe away the last few tears that slip through.
“I love…” She stops, and I nearly combust. “Your voice.”
Right. That. I force a smile. “Thanks, Love.”
She frowns. “Why don’t you believe me?”
“What?”
“You don’t believe me when I say I love your voice.”
I’ve already talked about my father today; I can’t talk about this, too. “Yes, I do,” I say, but even I don’t believe me.
“No, you don’t. I can tell.”
I stare at her, hoping she’ll back down from this.
But this isn’t like before. When my father came up, she knew not to push me.
But with this, she’s honestly confused. Why would a person going into music not believe someone telling them that they’re good?
It doesn’t make sense unless you get the full story.
My thumb taps her knee repeatedly, giving me time to think of a response. But I can’t lie. Not to her.
I pull away from her and move to the middle of the couch, my hands clasping tightly together to get me through this.
“I know you aren’t just saying these things because you want something from me.
I know that. But that’s how it’s always been when people complimented me.
They’d say I was good and then ask me for something.
Money, sex, both. And sometimes it was just things they didn’t want to do, and they would ask me to do it for them. ”
I scoff. “And I thought, ‘They just complimented me. They think I’m good at something. Why would their request be anything but simple?’”
My hands open and close, gripping tighter to gather any strength I have left.
“Then some of them never spoke to me again or just kept asking for the same things over and over because I had already given in the first time.” I bite my tongue, but the words slip out anyway.
“And I know you aren’t going to ask something like that of me, but because of all that, I’ve lost the ability to believe that I’m any good. ”
I try to look in her direction, but I can’t. Not yet.
“That’s why I’m still here. That’s why I’m still in college.
Why I went to college in the first place.
Even after Professor Owen said I had a future ahead of me, I couldn’t believe it.
And I honestly didn’t think I was good enough to be in that class to begin with.
But even after all the shows and all the compliments, I just don’t know how to believe any of it. ”
Silence hangs in the air, weighing on my chest. Fuck, I said too much. She probably thinks I’m crazy.
I shove my hands into my hair, still unable to look at her. Not after everything I’ve just admitted.