Page 39 of Just Say (Hell) No
And the music. Liquid notes falling into the dark.
He didn’t see her until she was leaning against the rail herself.
“Don’t stop,” she said when he looked up.
He didn’t smile, just looked at her as his nimble fingers flew over the strings of the guitar. His big body was relaxed, nothing moving but his hands. He was playing finger-style, so every note landed distinct, pure, and mellow.
Minor chords, those had to be. Melancholy. Beautiful.
“Sit down,” he said, “if you like. Get yourself a beer.”
“D’you want one?”
“Nah. I’m all good.”
“Me, too.” She sat in the other chair, scooted it closer to the rail, and put her feet up next to his.
“Tired?” he asked. Still playing, soft and pure and complicated.
“Maybe. Painting all day, eh.”
“Mm.” More of the slow, sweet melody, then he said, “Moon’s coming up. Nearly full tonight. I still like to watch the stars come out. Even though you can’t really see them here. Shock to me, when I first moved to the city.”
She leaned back and let the music wash over her, let it draw out the kind of wordless yearning that made your chest hurt and your heart fill, and saw what he saw. The curve of cool white edging its way up over the horizon, and a few pale pinpricks of stars beyond its glow. “I know,” she said. “Same for me, when we moved from Northland.”
“I didn’t know you couldn’t always see the Milky Way,” he said. “Or that blaze of stars. Thought it would be like that wherever I went, I guess.”
“Tekapo’s famous that way, I know,” she said. “I’ve never been. Seen photos, though. Beautiful as Northland, but in a different way.”
“A wilder way.”
The song rose, fell, ended, and she was sorry. “I didn’t know you played the guitar. What was that?”
“Still Loving You,by the Scorpions. Sounds different like this, I guess. Not so metal, eh.”
“You’re good.”
“Nah. Just played a lot.” He started again. Haunting, this time. Hurting. Familiar, but she couldn’t place it. “Basque dad, hippie mum. Grew up on a farm. No choice. Family time was music time. We can all play something. Turned out all right, though.”
“Helps you unwind,” she suggested. “To process, maybe. Things that are hard, or things that are new.”
“It does.”
“You play more after a loss, maybe.”
“Shh. Secret.”
She smiled, tipped her head back, found the Southern Cross, and surrendered to the music and the night. Let it wash over her skin, seep into her bones. “It’s so beautiful,” she said, “that it hurts.”
“Mm.Love the Way You Lie. About hurting, I guess. About being willing to hurt.”
“So that’s why you took Ella. Farm family. Close family.”
“Maybe.”
“Nobody else available to help, with all that family?”
“Nah.” The music went on, and his voice did as well, deep and slow and easy. “Mum and Dad are in the midst of breeding season. Merinos. Mum’s doing a lodge now as well. A cross between a farmstay and a luxury B&B, I guess you’d say. Still busy, at the edge of summer.”
