Page 60 of Stick Break
“How about some music?” Mrs. Callahan shouts out, holding up a wine glass like a toast.
“Yes, music,” a chorus of voices chimes in.
Charley claps once and beams. She’s clearly not in any rush to leave now, so I stand, accept our fate, and grab her guitar.
Little Emma scoots closer, her wide blue eyes shining with marshmallow-fueled enthusiasm. “Charley, will you teach me how to play guitar? I’ll give you a marshmallow.”
Charley laughs. “A marshmallow for payment? That sounds fair.”
I lean in and whisper. “Didn’t you just say you couldn’t eat one more thing.”
She nudges me with a wink. “But how could I say no to that face?”
Honestly, even I would’ve agreed to teach her, and I have the musical ability of a potato. But that kid is so damn sweet as she looks up at Charley with pure adoration. I get it kid. Trust me, I get it.
“Oh, thank you.” Emma flings her arms around Charley, smushing her sticky fingers into her hair. “I’m so sorry,” Emma says quickly, eyes round with horror.
“Don’t worry,” Charley says, laughing. “It’ll wash right out.”
I hand over the guitar, and she takes it like it’s something sacred. Which, to her, it is.
“How about I sing a few songs,” she says to the group, “and then I’ll teach you a few chords, Emma. You can borrow my guitar if you promise to be very, very careful with it.” She smiles at me and it messes with my heart. “It was a special gift.”
Honest to God, Charley is the kindest, most quietly extraordinary woman I’ve ever known, and it pisses me off more than it should that her parents saw her as some kind of rebel. How blind do you have to be to miss this? This woman with a marshmallow in her hair, children looking up to her as she strums her guitar for the pleasure of others. She’s generous. Nurturing. Soft in a way that makes you want to be better.
She catches my eye with a devilish grin. “Feel like singing? I believe this is your go-to jam.”
She strums, and oh God I know exactly what’s coming before she even opens her mouth. A beat later, Celine Dion's My Heart Will Go On floats into the firelit night. The whole group erupts with glee and join in. Even me. I’m off-key and half-laughing, but her grin when I butcher the chorus is totally worth it.
I glance over at Mrs. Callahan, who’s swaying with her wine glass and singing like she’s on stage at a Vegas lounge. The woman still kind of terrifies me, but seeing her this alive makes me weirdly happy. We brought a little magic to this night, or rather, Charley did.
The kids are clapping, twirling barefoot in the sand. The fire crackles. Something about this moment, this whole scene, hits me in the chest. Hard. I’ve always pictured the white picket fence life somewhere off in the distance. A future thing. A Lyra thing. But right now, watching Charley here, glowing with laughter and warmth and music, I feel…different.
She plays a few more songs until Emma’s rubbing her eyes, blinking sleepily. Charley quiets the strings and gently rests the guitar in her lap.
“Want to go find a quiet spot? I can show you a few chords,” she offers.
“Yes, I would love that,” Emma whispers like she’s being handed the keys to a kingdom.
“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Callahan says, and I step back, watching Charley lead Emma a few feet away, sitting cross-legged across from her with all the patient of a good teacher. I’m probably grinning like a damn fool, because suddenly Jensen’s at my side, clapping a hand on my back. I wince, my skin sore from the burn.
“Dude,” he says, smirking. “She’s something special, huh?”
“Yeah,” I breathe. My voice is low. Distant. “She really is.”
I’m still watching her when Jensen leans in. “You really marrying her?”
I turn slowly, every part of me tensing. There’s a look in his eye I don’t like. Not one bit.
“You do know who she is, right?” he laughs.
My stomach drops. My fingers curl into fists. “What the hell are you getting at?”
Jensen snorts. “That’s Indie Rhodes, man. She can cut her hair, ditch the makeup, wear a Sunday school dress all she wants. But I’d know that face anywhere. And…” He grins, crude and knowing. “Well. Some other parts too.”
I’m this close to swinging, fist clenched, heart hammering, ready to knock that smug look clean off Jensen’s face. But I drag in a hard breath through my nose, forcing myself to cool down. Hitting him won’t help Charley. It’ll only bring her more trouble, more eyes, more questions.
“That’s not her,” I bite out, jaw tight.
