Page 10 of A Country Kind Of Love
“That’s my point. You don’t know him.”
“Okay, Dad. I’mgoing now.”
Jesse seems like a nice guy. He’s oddly calm, freakishly tall, doesn’t like to wear a shirt, and spends thirty-five minutes in the shower, but he seems sweet. The night before Peyton took a short online test entitled,How to tell if someone is a serial killer. Other than him being white, American, and male like 73% of all serial killers, he didn’t possess any other corresponding traits. The test came out at 8%—she can live withthose odds.
She lights the incense stick on the coffee table. If there was a time and a place to lighten her mood, and pacify her spirits, it was now. The fresh frankincense aroma soothes her, creating a serene atmosphere reminiscent of a meditation retreat to LA. She hates to admit she attended a meditation retreat two years in a row. It’s so LA, and sheis so,not.
Peyton lies back, she takes deep breaths, she does all the relaxation techniques that Tara, the extremely attractive meditation coach, told her would unlock her chakras, but she’s quickly catapulted from her tranquil state when the shrill beep of the smoke detector erupts around the apartment.
Jesse bounds through her bedroom door on high alert, he assesses the room, shirtless obviously. He begins wafting a green stripey hand towel at the smoke detector in the centre of the room. The piercing beep stops, and he stands theretriumphant.
“Sorry... it must be the smoke from the incense.” Peyton cracks open a window. The room is a cloudy oasis.
“Jesus. Smells good, but maybe go easy on the smoke machine next time; the detectors are sensitive.” Jesse throws the towel over his shoulder and turns to leave.
“Hey, Jesse,” Peyton calls after him.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t suppose you can help me with the shelves?” Jesse holds his forefinger up. Thirty seconds later he returns with a dusty black toolbox. He removes the drill from its case and pulls the leaver several times with a mischievous grinon his face.
“Let’s do this.”
?
“Now, for the real test.” Peyton pulls out several books from themisc.box. She stacks them three high on the top shelf. “Let’s see if it holds.”
“I’m offended you think it won’t,” Jesse responds.
The cowboy hat once belonging to her mom takes pride of place, and a brown picture frame with the last family photo fills the top shelf. A selection of low-maintenance plants, including a tiny aloe vera named Ally, sits comfortably on the second shelf.
“It’s just missing one... more... thing.” She digs around in the box that suddenly feels like a never-ending sink hole. “Ah-ha,here it is.”
Peyton proudly displays a small treble clef shaped silver trophy.
“What does that say?” Jesse leans forwards to read the inscription along the bottom.Follow your dreams, even when they seem out of reach.
“My mom bought it for me in eighth grade.” She brushes the finger marks from theinscription.
“Is there a story behind it?” Jesse sits back on the leather futon. It’s the one thing Peyton refrained from giving to Goodwill, at least until she purchases a chair of somedescription.
“I started playing the piano when I was nine. I had the best teacher, my mom. When I finally found the courage to play in front of other people, the kids in school laughed at me, said it was ‘uncool’ to play the piano. I stopped playing for a while after that, until I met my best friend in seventh grade. She thought it was amazing that I could play the piano. I entered a bunch of competitions the following year and failed miserably. Stage fright got the better of me. I was thirteen, so not getting a trophy was soul destroying.” Peyton walks over to the piano and lifts the key lid, she can still make out the faded letters from where she’d written chords all those years ago.
“Mom got me that trophy and told me to replace it with a Grammy someday.” Peyton’s mouth curls into a smile.
“We can do that right now if you want,”Jesse jokes.
“I think she meant a real one;no offense.”
“None taken.” He smiles. “You’re pretty goodthen, huh?”
“I can play.”
“You’re being modest.”
“I don’t play to perform, only to write.”
The performance element died when her mom did. The only person she’d ever aspired to impress was her mom, and now she saw no reason to play in front of a crowd. Who’s to say she’d even be good enough? Some people are meant for a life behind the scenes on the long list of credits, as opposed to the headlining title. She would be happy with that; it suited her just fine.
