Page 68 of August Lane
When they finished, she was trembling. Sometimes a good thing was too good, and what it revealed was terrifying. She’d always thought her voice was her voice, flaws and all, the end. But the universe doesn’t work that way. She could see it in Luke’s stunned, shaken expression. When stars collide, they’re irrevocably changed.
The next morning, Luke thought of a story. He wrote it down, then immediately erased it and tried to pretend it never existed. The idea was, for lack of a better word (which was at the root of his problems) stupid. Boring at minimum. After yesterday, he was pretty sure August liked him, so he didn’t want to ruin it by plopping some underbaked idea that made him look lazy in her lap. Digging through his past had always been risky, so he wasn’t very good at it. Simple things like his first day of kindergarten triggered an avalanche of bad memories: a spilled bowl of cereal, Ava screaming, Ethan crying. She’d forced Luke to wear the milk-soaked pants all day and ordered his teachers not to let him change.
“Don’t think about it” was his mantra, his entire approach to life. Now August wanted him to rummage through those mental trash heaps and find something that would make a good love song.
“You thought of something, didn’t you” was the first thing she saidto him at Delta Blue. Instead of answering no like a normal person with self-preservation instincts, he said, “Yeah. It’s about my first love. But not the kind you think.”
Her eyes rounded, more doe-like than usual. “Sounds mysterious.”
“It’s not a person.” His skin caught fire the minute he said it. This was the stupid part.
“Congratulations. I’m both confused and intrigued.” She sat on the couch and patted the cushion next to her. His eyes were drawn to her bare legs. She wore jean shorts with a red T-shirt that saidTHERE’S NO APP FOR THIS. Their knees touched when he sat down.
“I’m not sure where to start,” he said, waiting for her to move away. She didn’t.
“With a feeling. How did whatever this is make you feel?”
“Happy.”
“Okay. Reckless choice for a country song, but let’s go with it. What made you happy?”
“Holding the guitar pick right. I would sneak and watch Pete play—”
“Who’s Pete?”
“My little brother’s father. Pete was a banjo player in a folk band. Taught me about roots music. I wanted to learn how to play but was afraid to ask.”
“How old were you?”
“Five or six. My mom would tell me not to bother him. He was kind to me. Nicer than I thought adults could be at that point.”
“Nicer than your mother?”
He hated when he slipped up like that. Ava wasn’t a safe topic. “Yeah. So anyway, I used to watch him. Then, when he was gone, I would sneak into the garage, where he stored all his instruments, and try to play his guitar. One day he caught me. I thought for sure that was it. I’m going in the closet for days. But he asked me if I wanted to learn. The first thing he taught me was okay.”
Her lips quirked. “Okay?”
Luke retrieved a pick from his bag. “You make an okay sign like this. And slide the pick here…” He pointed to his thumb and forefinger. “So that it’s facing the strings when you turn your wrist.”
She watched him closely. “Let me try.” She took the pick from him and tried to mimic his hand position.
“No, that’s wrong.”
She moved one finger lower. “Like this?”
He cupped her hand and gently put her fingers into position. “Likethis.”
August met his eyes. “Your hands are warm.”
“Sorry.” He pulled them back.
“No, it’s okay. Mine are cold, that’s why I…” She waved away the rest of her sentence. “I think I got it.”
“Good. Yeah, good.” He wiped his hands on his jeans so he wouldn’t grab her again. “How does it make you feel?”
“Vaguely competent. But six-year-old Luke was thrilled, wasn’t he?”
“Felt like I’d cracked the world open.”
