Page 75 of One Week Wingman

“You don’t even know. And we’ve still got the reunion, and my parents’ party…” I bury my face in my hands, but Sebastian peels them away.

“We’ll get through it,” he says, looking down at me with those reassuring blue eyes. “You’ve forgotten about your secret weapon.”

“My winning personality?” I grimace.

He grins. “No. Me. And I know exactly what you need right now.”

“Here?” I ask. “We managed to get out of the last citation, but I don’t know what Deputy Steve will make of us banging in the girls’ bathroom…”

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Sebastian laughs. “At least, for the next hour or some. Come on, you need some serious cheering up.”

Sebastian drivesus to the next town, my curiosity growing. “How do you even know where you’re going?” I ask.

“Thanks to a little thing called Yelp, and Google Maps,” he replies, navigating his way down the main street, and off a little lane to one side. I look around, recognizing the storefronts, and the yellow-painted building up ahead.

Paulie’s Music Shop.

I can’t believe it. “I loved this place as a kid!” I exclaim, as we park and walk up the front steps.

“I figured.”

I look over, confused. “How?”

“I was searching for somewhere like this near Ashford Falls, and believe it or not, they have a photo of you on their website.” Sebastian replies, holding the door for me.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, amazed.

He pulls out his phone and shows me. It’s a janky old site, and clearly hasn’t been updated in the past decade, but there’s a gallery of pictures from the store over the years: music classes, and customers, and…

“There you are,” Seb points it out.

I stare. I must have been fifteen in the photo, sitting on a stool with my head bent, picking out chords on an acoustic guitar. I must have come straight from school, in jeans and aBroken Social SceneT-shirt, lost in the music.

“Did you hang out here a lot?” Sebastian asks, looking around. It’s a cozy, cluttered space, with bookshelves of sheet music, displays of instruments, and a gleaming baby grand piano in the corner.

“My dad would bring me, when I was a kid,” I say, breathing in the familiar scent of string wax and parchment. “Every Saturday, when he was in town, at least. We’d get breakfast at the diner, chocolate chip pancakes, and then drive over here. We’d spend the whole morning,” I remember. “He was teaching me to play guitar, he’d show me all the different chords. We never bought anything,” I add. “We couldn’t really afford it. But Paulie didn’t mind if we hung out all day. Sometimes, he’d play with dad, and they’d talk about touring, and sessions, and all that stuff.”

I feel a pang of grief. I was still young when my father died, but old enough to remember him. To remember himtoowell, sometimes.

Sebastian squeezes my hand. I didn’t even realize he was holding it. “I think it’s time for a demonstration,” he says.

I shake my head, immediately. “No. I don’t want to play. We can just look around.”

Seb raises an eyebrow. “Come on,” he urges me. “What’s the big daddy here? The Musigny Grand Cru?”

“I’m assuming that’s a fancy wine brand,” I ask.

“A vintage. And yes. Go on.” Sebastian takes my shoulders and turns me to face the wall of guitars. “Treat yo self, as you Americans love to say.”

I pause. Back in the day, my father would always pick the same guitar to play: a Martin D-28. “It’s a classic,” I tell Seb, gravitating towards the display. “The one Neil Young and Jonny Cash would play.”

I run my fingers over the antique white accents and a tortoiseshell pickguard.

“Dad always said that when he made it big, that’s the one he’d buy,” I add. “But of course…”

“He didn’t make it big.” Seb finishes for me.

“I don’t think Mom ever forgave him, for putting his music first, before everything else. Everyone,” I say ruefully. Including me. “And I understand it, it must have been so hard for her, the way he was constantly leaving us, trying to get on this tour, or that backup track. It’s why she’d rather throw me back in that jail cell than ever accept I’m still playing music, too. But…” I pause, remembering those mornings together, and how my father would play for hours.

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