Page 73 of Knot Just for Show

I couldn’t help myself—I gravitated instantly toward the guitar.

“Ooh goody! I don’t have to do the thing where I act like some cringey teenager and beg for you toplay for me.” Ursula kicks off her plastic jelly sandals and sets to work making herself something to drink from the table full of fruit, juices, and fizzy liquids that have been set out for us.

“I promise I won’t playWonderwall,” I laugh, watching her easy way—the toss of her short curly hair as she flops down on the daybed—drink in hand, golden eyes on me over the top rim of her sunglasses.

The truth is, I’m dying to ask her to sing for me, but it feels simultaneously too silly and too intimate to ask of her.

“I don’t think I’ve heard you sing before,” she muses aloud—her lips pursing around the striped paper straw in her drink thoughtfully.

I give her a look. Not to be an asshole, but now that she knows who I am—I would find it pretty hard to believe she’s going to pretend that she hasn’t heard at least one of my dozens of top 40 radio hits. They may be few and far between these days, but I’ve got plenty of gold and platinum albums to go around.

“Don’t give me that face,” she laughs at me, sticking out her little kitten pink tongue. “I’ve heard KR3OSOTE songs, sure—but your voice is pretty highly modified in all of those!” Ursula protests, and I have to concede to her valid point.

“Fair enough, you are getting far from an acapella experience on any KR3OSOT3 track, that is true,” I sigh, quickly making sure the guitar is actually in tune—plinking out the angelic bell-tones of a proper harmonic, my fingers light over the strings.

I start picking an impromptu fingerstyle arrangement of George Shearing’s ‘Guilty’—and I’m delighted to see Ursula’s eyes sparkle with recognition.

“Is it a sin, is it a crime—loving you dear like I do? If it’s a crime then I’m guilty, guilty of loving you…” I begin in my clear, shining tenor. My heart flutters in my chest as Ursula sets her cup down on a side table, scooting to the edge of the daybed—her spine straight, air filling her lungs as she breathes in.Yes, that’s it…you know you want to.

I continue singing through the rest of the following verse, but when I make it to the chorus, Ursula joins me in perfect harmony,

“If it’s a crime then I’m guilty, guilty of loving you!”

She claps excitedly already on her feet.

“I’m sorry, I just hopped in at the end there, I am so bad—I couldn’t help myself,” Ursula apologizes, but I’ll hear none of it.

“Are you kidding? I would have preferred you sing the whole thing! Will you do one for me now?”

She blushes furiously.

“Uh—I don’t know, I don’t want to embarrass myself.” Ursula backs herself onto the daybed, bouncing down onto it—all the wind gone from her sails.

“Did I…say something or do something wrong?” I venture, worried I’ve somehow behaved like a boneheaded show off.

“No, not at all. It’s me who’s got the issues here,” Ursula laughs unkindly at herself. “I’m worried that you’re going to listen to me just like all those record execs and producers for nightclub acts—and you’re going to send me packing,” she admits reluctantly.

“I can tell you that isn’t going to happen,” I assure her—cupping her bare knee with my hand.

“You say that, but you’re literally a famous musical artist. How the hell am I supposed to compete with that?”

An ugly laugh wells up from deep in my belly, a sudden weight lifted from my shoulders that I wasn’t aware that I was carrying until now.

“I know you call mefamous, and not to seem like a total douchebag—because I am, famous that is—but most of my contemporaries, my ‘keepers’—my ‘bosses’ consider me to be firmly in has-been territory,” I confess ruefully.

Ursula straightens on the daybed, my hand slipping from her knee—a determined furrow between her brow and a sparkle in her golden eyes.

“Who the fuck told you that you were a has-been!?” she barks angrily, her hands reaching out to clasp my hand.

I’m so struck off balance by her instant jump to anger—her complete commitment to defending my honor when I myself have no heart to—that I can’t help but let out another cathartic laugh—my spirit lifting with each gasping guffaw.

“Put the knives away, ma’am—they aren’t exactly off base. But I appreciate you being so quick to turn some very high-powered record executives and label owners into throw rugs for me.” I bring her hands to my face and lay a few kisses over her knuckles while she shifts to standing.

“You aren’t a has been,” Ursula insists, jutting her chin toward me. “You can play well, you’ve got an excellent sense of musicality,” she compliments me before pressing up onto her tiptoes to kiss me on the mouth.

“How did we end up with you reassuring me? I’m clearly terrible at giving pep talks,” I muse aloud in between a chain of tender kisses.

“Because you’re actually good at pep talks, idiot,” she scoffs a laugh, pushing back from her place awkwardly curled around me and the guitar. She folds her sunglasses up and sets them on the side table, pulling her regular glasses from her beach bag before making a gesture of ‘grabby hands’ for me to pass her the instrument.

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