Page 73 of Our Final Encore

“You’re finished writing that song, I guess?” It sounds a lot more desperate out loud than it did in my head. Like I’m trying to find a reason to make him stay even longer.

“More or less,” he shrugs. He looks around the room a bit awkwardly, probably because he just wants to get out of here. I’m about to tell him goodbye until he opens his mouth again. “Do you want to hear what I have so far? I mean…if you feel like listening.”

“I thought you said you hadn’t come up with chords for it?”

“I might’ve thought about some while eating my pizza. I’ll have to grab my guitar and make sure they sound right out loud. Maybe you can tell me if it sounds like shit.”

“I guess I could do that,” I grin. If there’s one thing I can say for sure about Alex, it’s that I know the song won’t sound like shit. He’s always been unbelievably talented at writing music.

“Be right back, let me go grab my guitar.” He’s out the door before I can respond, and for some reason I feel strangely nervous, but also excited.

This isn’t weird, nor is it romantic, I tell myself. It’ll be just like old times, before we ever started dating, when I’d listen to him play guitar and I’d sit beside him doing my own hobby.

Like friends.We can be friends, right?I mean, we might as well be, we’re going to have to be civil once this baby gets here.

The front door creaks open and he appears in the doorway, his guitar strap slung over his neck.

“Alright, just give me a few minutes to work it out and then I’ll sing it for you.” His eyes dance over the crinkled paper from earlier as he strums a few chords. “I’m nervous.”

My brows arch. “What? Why?”

“You haven’t listened to any of my music in a long time.”

“So?”

He shrugs. “I want you to like it.”

I rub a hand over my stomach. “Yeah, I am a pretty harsh critic.”

He peeks up at me, smiling. “You were my very first fan, I’d be pretty ashamed if I let you down.”

“Pfft, fan? You make me sound like a groupie or something.” I roll my eyes.

“Definitely not a groupie,” he shakes his head. “Alright, you ready?”

“So ready.”

He starts picking at the strings, and a melancholy, bluesy sound fills the room. It’s different from what I expected, but I like it.

You always were my saving grace

I’m sorry that it had to go this way

All my love must go to waste

I’m leaving here a disgrace

You’re the one that didn’t leave so don’t talk about mistakes

I never made one this bad, I never fucked up like that

How come you love me more when I’m away?

My heart is in my throat when he plays the last chord. He’s always been an incredible writer, and I expected to be impressed, but I wasn’t expecting to be blown away. Hearing him sing those lyrics, knowing they’re about me, it does something weird to me.

I communicate through writing, I always have. I guess you could even say it’s my love language. And I know that music is his.

It feels like some tiny part of my heart has been healed by hearing that song. Like he was able to tell me something that wouldn’t have ever been expressed by words alone.

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