Page 46 of Songbird
“Sure,” I say. “Let me get my guitar.”
I disappear into the closet and go first for the Martin, but on second thought choose Mom’s Hummingbird. If Rosie is surprised by my choice, she gives no sign of it as I settle into the armchair in the corner and set the instrument on my thighs. I test the strings and tweak them until I’m satisfied with the tuning.
On the bed, Rosie rolls over to watch me but remains lying against the pillows, and I’m grateful she’s at least pretending to have low expectations about what comes next.
I play the first song that comes to mind. It’s an acoustic track that was all over the radio in the nineties and one of the first songs my mom taught me. She loved it, so I loved it. I play the introduction, the chords coming to me with the benefit of fifteen years of muscle memory, and at the first verse, I start to sing. I don’t mean to. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until the chorus, and by then there’s no point in stopping. I play the song through to the end, eyes closed the way they always are even though my mom constantly reminded me to open them. I play and I sing,and I almost forget Rosie’s watching. That’s how good it feels to be wrapped in music. Playing. Singing.Being.
As the last notes fade into silence, I open my eyes, a little dismayed that the song passed so quickly, but then I notice Rosie’s expression. It’s soft and sweet and… sad? Yeah, sad. There’s a single tear rolling down her cheek.
“I’m sorry.” I set the guitar against the wall. “That wasn’t what you’re used to. You don’t have to pretend—”
“Finn?”
She rises to her knees, scoots to the end of the bed, and reaches out her hand. I get up and take it, looking down into her eyes, and she squeezes my fingers tight enough to almost hurt.
“You’re good,” she says. “You’rereallygood.”
My smile is self-conscious and a little disbelieving. “That’s generous of you but—”
“Shut up,” she says, and my brows climb high. “I wouldn’t insult you with empty praise, so don’t insult me by assuming I’d lie to you about your talent. And you do have talent. You’re good, Finn. Better than good, and I loved it.”
I glance at the guitar against the wall. “Thank you.”
“So you read music,” she says slowly, almost thinking out loud. “And you play it. Do you write it?”
I narrow my eyes at the sparkle in hers. It feels like wearing too tight a sweater to be so open about this part of my life, but the delight in Rosie’s smile makes it impossible to be closed off. It’s odd. Almost everyone in my life takes my quiet solitude as given. A personality quirk. They let it go and I’m grateful for that, but Rosie won’t let it go, and I never thought I’d be grateful for that too.
“I write,” I confess. “Or I used to. I haven’t written anything in a long time.”
Rosie opens her mouth, then closes it again with a snap. I can see the question hovering there still, in the twitch of her cupid’s bow and the fidgeting in her fingers under mine.
“You want to read something?” I guess with apprehension. I won’t say no, but sharing my own music is nowhere near the same as covering a tune already validated with decades of radio play. And I’ve never shared that part of myself with anyone before. Vulnerability does not fit me well, but I’d be a creep and a hypocrite if I didn’t give as much of myself to Rosie as she’s already given to me.
Rosie drops her head to one side and increases the pressure in her grip. “No, Finn. That’d be like asking to read your diary, and I’d never do that. I was wondering if there’s anything you’re ready to share. It could be a melody or a chorus or an idea… It’s okay if the answer is no, but I’d be honored to hear it.”
I dart a look at my mom’s guitar again and ask myself if there’s anything I want to lift from that notebook hidden in my dresser and finally give wings. My head saysnobut a persistent kind of expectation makes my stomach tighten. Thereissomething that deserves to be more than black inky scribbles on a lined white page. There’ssomeonewho deserves to be more.
With a small nod, I drop Rosie’s hands and collect the guitar, but this time I sit on the edge of the bed, predicting that once I get started, I’ll need her close by to get through it. With a hesitant strum and a second thought that flits through my head so fast that it barely registers, I set my fingers on the fret, play the strings with a light-as-air plucking motion, and sing.
The music is supposed to feel stirring and ethereal, delicate and hushed to encourage a listener to lean in andhearit. And when they do, the words follow, full of heartbreak and desolation, frustration and guilt. Surrender and acceptance that some of us will always be haunted by regret.
I wrote this song the night that Jack died and I was feeling all those things. I still feel them most days—or, rather, most nights. I lie awake thinking back on what he did and what I didn’t do. How I couldn’t be what my best friend needed, and the reason why I wouldn’t change anything even if I had the chance. Jack asked me for help, and I gave it. I took the job he asked me to take, and I left him behind. It’s why Rosie is here in my bed now and not the victim of a psychotic fan, injured or disfigured—or worse. But maybe it’s also why Jack’s gone.
I didn’t know he was suffering as much as he was. He never told me, and I didn’t see it. Would he still be here if I’d been a better friend? Paid closer attention? Recognized the signs? I don’t know, and I never will.
The song echoes what happened when my parents died and I couldn’t be here when they passed. It’s seasoned with the guilt I carry that Charles and Dylan had to run Silver Leaf Ranch on their own for years and it nearly broke our family and ruined the business. The feelings are so big and so powerful, and they’re the reason I don’t feel comfortable in gray spaces. I need clear lines and consequences so I can do what needs to be done. I can’t live with another person I care about getting lost in the in-betweens.
The final notes of my song float from the strings and drift into stillness. Rosie slips a cool hand over my shoulder, then around the back of my neck, and her thumb brushes my hairline in soft, soothing strokes. The room is quiet, and it’s only when she tries to hide a sniffle that I realize she’s trying not to cry. I set my guitar beside me and wrap an arm around her to pull her against my side. When that doesn’t feel close enough, I lift her onto my lap.
“Hey.” I press my lips against the top of her head. Her hair smells like she sleeps in rose petals. “That’s two songs and two times I’ve made you sad. Keep this up and I won’t play for you anymore.”
“That was so layered.” Rosie nuzzles the curve of my neck. “The melody, the tone, the lyrics.” She pauses, for the second time today thinking before she asks a question, and it’s that kind of consideration that makes it easier to open up.
“You can ask,” I tell her. “Though I think I know what you’re going to say.”
“Is that song written from experience?” she asks. “Maybe… about your mom and dad?”
“No, not my parents, or not only them.” I tighten my arms around her frame and rest my cheek on her hair. “Jack. The friend I served with in the military.”
