Page 76 of One Week Wingman

“He felt the most like himself with a guitar in his hands,” I tell Seb now. “And I guess I do, too.”

Before I know what’s happening, Sebastian takes the guitar down and hands it to me.

“I can’t,” I say instinctively.

“Oh please.” Seb laughs. “You know you want to. It’s written all over your face.”

I bite my lip. “I kind of do.”

Sebastian steers me to a chair, and I sit, just appreciating the workmanship for a moment. The smoothness of the maple neck. The tension of the strings. It’s beautifully tuned already, so I don’t need to do anything, but I can’t stop touching it. I tap the scratch plate behind the strings and listen for the reverberation.

Eventually, I can’t resist any longer. I strum a couple of chords. “What should I play?” I ask Seb, who’s leaning against the counter nearby.

“Don’t ask me, I have shocking taste in music.” He grins. “Unless you feel like breaking out a cover of Girls Aloud.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Exactly.” Seb smiles at me. “Play something your father taught you.”

I pause, thinking back to all his lessons. “Joni Mitchell,” I decide. “Both Sides Now.”

I recall the first notes and start to play. And just like always, everything else falls away. I lose myself in the song, and the feeling of this incredible guitar. I know now why my dad chose it every time. I don’t even feel like I’m playing it, more that it’s playing with me. A duet.

I don’t want to stop, but I reach the last line, let my hands rest and open my eyes… to the sound of applause. It’s not just Sebastian, either. Everyone in the store has stopped to listen.

I blush.

“That was lovely,” Sebastian says, looking at me with a strange expression on his face.

“It’s nothing,” I shrug, self-conscious. “A million kids on YouTube are doing the exact same thing every day.”

“Don’t do that,” Seb says, putting the guitar back on display. “You’re amazing. Own it.”

“Can’t I just borrow it, for a high interest rate, on loan?” I quip, still not comfortable with the compliments. Showering me with praise for my expert margarita-making skills? Great. Even my knitting abilities don’t make me blush.

But hearing feedback for my music? It makes me feel weirdly exposed. Which is just one of many reasons why I haven’t auditioned to join any local bands or played in public back in the city.

He smiles. “I don’t understand you. If I had a gift like that, I wouldn’t shut up about it. You’d never hear the end of my brilliance.”

“You mean, as opposed to now?” I tease, still trying to divert him.

“Face it, King, you’ve got talent,” Sebastian pronounces. “The question is, what are you going to do with it?”

“Push it way down, so nobody ever hears about it,” I tell him, only half-kidding. “Didn’t you hear the moral of my dad’s story? Music isn’t a career.”

“No, it’s a passion,” Seb corrects me. “Which you should pursue, just for the hell of it. Because it makes you happy. I’m not saying go audition forAmerican Idol—”

“—Thank God—”

“—But why not play a couple of open mic nights, back in the city?” he suggests. “Join a band, play more. For you, not because you’re trying to make it big.”

I take a deep breath.For me. “Maybe,” I say slowly, thinking about it again.

He whistles. “That’s closer to a ‘yes’ than we’ve gotten so far. I’ll take it as a win!”

We browse a little longer, and I pick up some new Olivia Rodrigo sheet music I know my guitar students will love. “Do we have to go home?” I ask reluctantly, as we head back to the car.

“The finish line is in sight,” Sebastian says encouragingly. “It’s just tomorrow left, right? Your parents’ big garden party, and then the reunion.”

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