Page 73 of Heart Strings
“No ventriloquism at the table,” I plead. “At least put that horrible thing in your room while we eat. Or better yet, the bin.”
We sit, my da taking the helm of the table. Fionn bursts in through the back door and snatches a piece of bread, stuffing it into his mouth with a casual, “Hey, Lo,” before Da demands he wash up. I pull out the chair for Lo and our eyes meet. Mamproudly ladles chowder into everyone’s bowls. Da says grace, and we dig in.
They ask Cielo about her rotations, Da tells an exaggerated fishing tale, Fionn recounts a story wherein he was the hero in his team’s latest match. It’s likely more exaggerated than Da’s fish story, but Lo is nodding along in between bites all the same. Before long, our spoons clink the bottom of the bowls, and the last of the bread has soaked up the soup.
After Lo thanks my mom for the third time, I can tell she’s appreciative of more than home cooking. She attempts to gather the bowls at the end of the meal and my mam shoos her away.
The people I love most, all in one place. Moving back is the right decision—I just hope Cielo still feels the same way.
“I have something for you. Come here.” I lead her down the hallway.
She narrows her eyes. “Are you allowed to have girls in your room?”
“Only if I promise to keep the door open.”
The guest room is generic, but over the past few weeks, I’ve gotten comfortable. Old clothes dug out of storage hang in the wardrobe alongside my London clothes. Fionn is right, city folk dress to impress. In Galway, being spotted at the neighborhood pub wearing anything designer will garner “fashion show” jokes and mutters of developing notions. We relish the opportunity to destroy people’s confidence.
“Got you this.” I hand her an LP inside a paper sleeve, feeling ridiculous. “I know you’re a vinyl girl. Figured this would be the best introduction.”
She slides out the record to reveal the deluxe edition ofHeaven-Bound. Gold foil on the title shines as she flips it over toread the track listing. Lo rises up on her toes to peck my cheek. “Thank you. I’m excited to finally give it a proper listen.”
Suddenly, I’m feeling shy. “There’s something else I wanted you to hear. A new song I’m still fine-tuning.”
“Oh my god, yes!” Lo sits at attention on my bed. It’s adorable.
I grab my mandolin and sling the woven strap around my shoulder. To warm up my hands, I pluck out a quick chromatic descent, starting on the seventh fret and playing my way down to the first. “Fair warning, it’s going to sound better with the rest of the band. The mandolin is really more a melody instrument. It doesn’t have the full range for rhythm—”
“Just play the song already.”
“I’m trying to woo you here. Let me work up to it.”
Playfully impatient, she taps her fingers on my quilt. Sure, I am stalling. But I haven’t performed for her in so long and Lo’s opinion matters. Perhaps more than anyone else’s, considering the subject matter. The advice I’d given to a nervous Callum rings true in this moment, too: It’s not a performance. It’s a promise.
I keep my attention on the fretboard. Fionn and I have tweaked the arrangement a handful of times and I’m working on developing the muscle memory to play it without focusing so hard. The song is bright like Cielo’s intelligent hazel eyes. Energetic to reflect the way my heart kicks my sternum every time she kisses me.
Fierce and battle-ready, yeah
You’re gearing up for war
But I kneel at your feet on my apology tour
Every beat, every song
All the times I’ve done wrong
Now I humble myself to the one who I adore
Our hearts beat in time
When our bodies intertwine
Babe I’m yours forevermore
Begging for forgiveness on the apology tour
When I dare to look up at her during the chorus, Lo is rapt. I can’t help but grin right back. She brings out the best in me and I want to offer the same support to her. But first, I have to convince her that we really are better off together—especially when it doesn’t match the vision of her five-year plan.
I close out the song and clear my throat. “It’s, uh, something like that.”
