Page 8 of Sing Your Heart Out

Gritting my teeth, I ask. “Where do you want to work?”

She picks up her guitar case, looking around. “Ummm… maybe upstairs?”

I nod. “All right. After you.”

She flashes me a bright smile and then heads toward the staircase. I follow her up the stairs, taking pains not to look at her ass in those black jeans. It’s just that they are skin tight and worn at the creases. And they make her waist look so small, it’s kind of ridiculous.

Ridiculously attractive, that is. What is it with this girl? Why am I so hard up for her?

She makes it up the staircase and finds her way into the small lounge. There is a fluffy white couch and a matching chair on one side. On the other side of the little room there is a record player with stacks of records.

“This place is nice,” she says, setting her guitar down by the couch. “I mean, they didn’t have to give us such big rooms. I was expecting bunk beds or something.”

I didn’t think the bedrooms were really anything to write home about, but what do I know? Maybe I’m spoiled.

I clear my throat, claiming the chair. “So how do you usually do this?” I ask, sitting back. “When you write, I mean.”

A line of worry appears between her eyebrows. “Ummm… for the songs that I did on the demo, I wrote the lyrics first. Or… mmm… maybe that’s not right. I picked the strongest verse that made the most sense for the overall feel I was going for. And then I built it out from there.” She blushes beet red. “I know my songs are super simple, but… I’ve only started playing the guitar a few months ago.”

“Really?” I ask.

Shit. I’ve overestimated her abilities. Did I screw up, picking her to work with on day one?

She sits down, picking up her guitar case. “Yeah. I’m not really a strong instrumentalist. But I like to fit lyrics together.”

She strums a few cords and then looks up at me. “What about you?”

I shrug. “I’m a better guitar player than a lyricist. I’ll admit to that any day.”

She gives me the most genuine smile. “We’re well suited, then.”

I shift in my seat. “We’ll see.” I pick up my guitar, plucking a few strings. “Do you want to write a happy song or a sad song? Angsty or cheerful?”

Sarah looks at me, meeting my gaze. Then she looks down. “I think I have more to be happy about, but I still want to write a sad song. I’ve been toying with some lyrics since I got here yesterday.” She takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “They’re about going on a trip that you don’t want to take but you know it’s better that way. You want to hear?”

I sit forward, interested. “Uhh… yeah, I want to hear.”

Turning red all the way down to her neck, she pulls a piece of paper from her pocket and unfolds it. She clears her throat and begins to sing, a wandering melody already in place.

She has an absolutely show stoppingly good voice. It’s a little low but delicate, winding around the words like a beautifully patterned snake.

“Dusty roads

Heavy load

In my heart

Sorrow flows

Southward bound

Heaven crowned

Here I am

Both lost and found

Now looking forward

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