Page 12 of Our Final Encore

Opal

“What are you always writing in there anyway?”

I peek up from the journal balancing on my thighs to see Alex’s green eyes staring at me from a few feet away.

He’s started coming over to my house almost every afternoon. He claims it’s because his house is boring, he says his dad is either at work or just sits around drinking all the time. That made me sad to hear. I know what it’s like to have an absent parent, but it must be just as hard having a parent that’s physically there but still ignores you.

I shrug. “Words.”

One of his brows lifts curiously. “What kind of words?”

“I don’t know, they’re just words that pop into my brain.” My eyes flick back to the page and I try not to lose the last thought that I was about to jot down.

I like that we can sit around and do what we’d normally do alone–together. He’ll bring his guitar and strum it while I write in my notebook. It’s kind of nice that we don’t have to talk all the time. I don’t have any other friends that enjoy just sitting aroundand doing nothing like this. I love Maisie to death, but she’s a busybody that constantly needs entertainment.

“Can I read them?” He asks after a couple of minutes pass.

I grasp my pen tighter and stare down at the page. “No,” I say.

“That’s cool. I was just asking.”

Usually I just write about my day, but sometimes I put my deepest and most visceral emotions on a page. I don’t know if I’d ever feel comfortable sharing that stuff with anyone.

“I write stuff too,” he says as he picks lazily at his guitar strings.

“You do?”

“Yeah, I’ve written a couple of songs. I guess you could call them songs,” he chuckles. “They’re not very good.”

“No way!” I close the notebook and set it on the small table beside me. “I want to hear one.”

He glances up at me for a second before looking down at the guitar again. “Not really fair, is it? If you won’t show me yours.”

I guess he has a point, but I have a feeling his writing is a lot more eloquent than mine. He seems to be good at everything he does. “Okay, fine, I can show you something in there. It’s really not even interesting, you’re going to be disappointed.”

“I bet it is interesting.” His voice is low and sincere, and it sends a prickle of excitement through me.

“You go first.”

He sighs. “Right now?”

“Yes? Why not?”

He flicks his eyes over to my front door expectantly, and then back at me.

“My mom is at work, and my grandma is watching tv in her room. She has the volume so high on that thing I promise she won’t hear you, I can hardly hear myself think when I’m in there.”

He chuckles and glances down at the guitar. “Alright,” he plays a couple of chords. “Don’t laugh. I told you it wasn’t good, that’s your only warning.”

I roll my eyes and cross my legs beneath me in the wicker chair I’m sitting on. The afternoon sun is starting to set, and the orange rays are filtering onto the porch.

He plays a simple progression of chords, it sounds sort of country-ish, but with a soft Americana vibe. It sounds really nice.

Don’t say he didn’t care, don’t say he didn’t love me

That man was my brother he put no one else above me

Don’t you dare call him a coward, he was too brave for his own good

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