Chapter Nineteen #2
I forced a soft smile onto my face, doing my best to believe him, but the doubt seeped into my head slowly like water that had found its way into a crack.
“You know, I’d planned on writing a song about my dad.
He was the best man I knew.” A slow chuckle rolled from the back of his throat.
“Actually, the day I met George, I would’ve sworn they had been brothers in another life because they’re just so damn similar.
He worked at the same construction company his entire life and had an incredible work ethic.
He didn’t put up with any bullshit, especially from me, but he always made sure I knew how much he loved me.
He and my mom saved up for months to buy me my first guitar, and then he spent hours teaching me how to play.
He’s in every single one of my childhood memories.
“When I was sixteen, he died of a heart attack. It was the worst thing I’d ever had to go through—or so I thought.
There were times when I didn’t think I’d make it to the next day, but by the grace of god and the strength of my mom, I did.
” He let out a deep breath. “I’d written bits and pieces of a song for him over the years, and it was almost finished.
I was finally feeling ready to share that story with the world.
Then, my friend Jackson and his wife Rebecca died, and all the pieces I’d slowly put back together shattered. ”
“Stetson—” I reached my hand out to offer some comfort, but I was too late; he’d already spun the chair to face the soundboard. “I’m so sorry,” I offered.
I wanted to say something else, to let him know I was there for him, but I also wanted to give him some space to just be with his own thoughts because it was clear that these specific ones had lived in his head for far too long.
He cleared his throat. “The song talked about my grief and how I’d overcome it, but that didn’t feel like the truth.
It made me sound like a fraud. In fact, grief had once again become an accomplice of mine, one that I just couldn’t shake.
Every time I went to finish the song, I couldn’t even read the lyrics without getting pissed off, so I just stopped writing it altogether.
That’s when I decided to come here, to come to Quincey Falls, in hopes of finding whatever it was that I was looking for. ”
“And? Have you found it?” I asked.
My question evoked a change in his position, the chair turning until he was facing me again. The sadness in his expression faded into something else as his eyes drank me up like a whiskey neat.
“I’ve found something.” The depth of his gaze knocked the wind out of me. “‘Choices’ is the first song I’ve written in almost a year, and something about that song makes me feel more than I’ve ever felt before. And truth be told, I wouldn’t have been able to do it without your help.”
“Yes, you would’ve. It just might have taken you a little bit longer.” The sureness in my voice was just the right amount of sassy and sweet.
“That I’m sure of,” he confirmed, the sadness flooding back in. “But now, I’m struggling again, because I know I’m going to have to face the grief if I really want to make this album something I’m proud of, and that’s been really hard for me.”
“As expected,” I said. “Stetson, you tragically lost two of the people who were closest to you, and that’s not something that just goes away.
In fact, as someone who’s constantly found solace in creating, I’m convinced people like us, people who create, feel more deeply than anyone else.
I always used to think that I was too emotional, too loud, just all around too much, and then someone very important to me told me that I was looking at it all wrong.
I wasn’t any of those things; I just felt emotions deeper than everyone else, and when those emotions got too heavy to bear, I channeled them into my creative outlet. For me, that was poems and lyrics.”
George had been the one to tell me that back when I was younger. I’d never shared that with anyone before, but then again, I’d yet to meet anyone who seemed to carry the same emotional burdens.
He may have come off like everything just rolled right off his shoulders, but it took all of five minutes of talking to him in the dark under the stars to uncover that he also felt things on a much deeper level.
“Damn. I’ve never thought about it like that.
I just assumed I needed to be strong enough to figure it out.
Strong enough to fight through it, move on, keep going with my life, and pretend like I was unbothered by all of it.
And I think I did so by creating songs that had more to do with beer and women than with actual emotions. ”
“There’s nothing wrong with that. I just think if you used those emotions to your advantage, you’d surprise yourself.
That’s all. Those feelings of grief that make you feel like a sinking ship with no life raft.
The feelings of sadness that sometimes make it impossible to think about even getting out of bed.
Use those feelings. Tell your story. Create some damn good songs,” I said, standing from the couch and dusting my jeans off to rid them of any wrinkles.
“Come on, I wanna show you something.” I extended my hand in his direction, nervously waiting to see if he was going to accept my invitation.
“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were all business and no play,” he said, still sitting in the chair.
I dropped my hand, feeling a little embarrassed that I’d offered it. “Sometimes a little play helps the business. You’ll see.”
He stood, grabbing my hand in his. His palm was softer than I expected as our skin touched. Tiny bolts of electricity swam from my palm all the way to my toes as he interlaced his fingers with mine. I looked down at our hands and then back up to him.
“What?” he questioned. “You didn’t really think I was going to turn down your offer, did you?”
I stayed silent, smiling behind my teeth and pulling him toward the door.