Page 77 of Secondhand Smoke
“You’ve always been sweet.”
“How would you know?”
“I watched you.”
The surprise softened into a barely there smile. “Right, yourcrush.”
Barrett chuckled nervously and hoped he appeared unfazed.
“Are you going to tell me about Bellevue?” Nell, thankfully, switched topics before he had to lie his way out of that one.
“Outrageous, as always,” he said. “I tried a new riff onStill of the Night, and the crowd ate it up.”
She dropped her toast onto her plate and stood up abruptly, making Barrett lean back in surprise. “Show me.”
He blinked. “Right now?”
“You never play for me.”
“I play for you all the time.”
She reached out and grabbed his arm, tugging on it. “No, I mean you never play for only me. I want a private show before you’re too expensive to book anymore.”
“Oh yeah?” He smirked. “What will I get in return then?”
She paused and looked to the side, thinking hard, then looked back at him. “I’ll bring a dozen of my mom’s gingersnaps.”
Barrett smacked his hands on his knees and rose up. “Deal.”
Ten minutes later, he flicked the final chords of an approximation of his impromptu Sunday night riff as he dragged it out before stopping. The room was suddenly deadly silent, leaving behind only the ringing rush of blood in his head to contrast what had been his music.
He looked up, panting softly, to find Nell staring at him.
She leaned forward, lost in her mind, her eyes glazed and far away. She did that sometimes, he’d noticed. He’d play and look up to find that dreamy gaze, and he’d wonder where she’d gone or if she was still there.
But right when he wanted to ask, she blinked and she was back. “You’re incredible.”
Breath was agonizingly difficult to swallow. He understood now why his saying she was sweet had taken her aback. No one had ever called him incredible. Sure, the band had its fans. People loved their music. But that was theirs.
This was him.
Just him, and just her.
He shrugged. “It was nothing.”
“You came up with that yourself?”
“Sorta.”
“Barrett, why don’t you write your own music? You have to know you’d kill at it.”
Hedidn’tknow. Covers were easy. If he loved a song already, everything else just came to him. With covers, he never worried about being judged based on the lyrics or the song. All he had to do was play and sing well.
Creating was harder. It was pulling thoughts from your head and throwing them into the world.
So he never tried. He’d never felt capable of being incredible.
“Not inspired, I guess.”
