Page 7 of Last Call at the Local

“Do you not like your own music or something?”

“It’s not that,” I say. “I just... well, it’s not for everyone.”

Jack squints at me. “And how’s that different from any other type of music?”

I blink at him. I’d never really thought of it that way. “I guess it’s not.”

He smiles. “So tell me about your music, Raine, disco enthusiast.”

“Well, like I said, I really like anything with a great bass line, so I always start there—”

“Do you play the bass too?”

“Oh, well, sort of. I mean, Ican, but I can’t carry around that many instruments, so I typically use a MIDI controller.” At the look on Jack’s face, I add, “It’s sort of like a keyboard, but you hook it upto a computer so you can play software instruments. The one I have...had... was great live.” I’m not sure I’m making any sense or really answering his question, but my mouth keeps moving anyway. “I don’t play my own music when I perform, though, just cover songs.”

There’s the hint of a smile at the corner of Jack’s mouth. “Because it’s not for everyone?”

For a moment I’m not sure what to say. The thought of playing my own music is both thrilling and terrifying. The few times I’ve tried, I bailed halfway through the song, letting the chord progression take me into something else. Something more familiar. Something I’m sure people know and love. I’m not typically a shy person, but when it comes to my own music... well, I’m afraid of what might happen. My music is my heart out there in the world. What if I put my heart out there, only for it to be rejected?

Which is ridiculous. Of course my music will be rejected. Even the best artists have those moments of failure. But for whatever reason, I just can’t get over it. What if rejection ruins my love for music? What if I can’t get over the failure? I’ve got enough failure in my life already. Music is my one sure thing. If I lose my love for it, what do I have? It’s why I’ve never finished recording a song before. I have a few snippets. A chorus here. A hook there. Maybe a verse or two. But nothing longer than a minute or so. If I don’t finish a recording, I don’t have to think about what to do with it.

“I just don’t have anything polished enough for public consumption,” I say.

Jack has a skeptical look on his face, so I start talking again before he can ask me any more questions about my music. “Sometimes I prefer to keep my performances simple, though. No foot tambourine. No MIDI controller. Just me, my guitar, and a looper pedal. I start with the bass line, like I said, and lay down riffs one at a time...You’d be surprised what you can do with just a guitar and looper pedal.”

My guitar.It hits me just how much I’ve lost this afternoon, and even though I can feel myself getting emotional, even though I know I need to slow down and shut up, I can’t. My thoughts are unspooling too fast, flying out of my mouth as soon as I think them.

“It was my grandfather’s guitar. An electric-acoustic Gibson from the sixties in this sunburst finish that is absolutely gorgeous. You can’t just replace something like that. When I was a kid, I stuck this Irish flag sticker on the back of it and thought for sure he’d kill me, but he just laughed and thanked me for customizing it—though he did ask me not to customize any more of his stuff without asking. He grew up here, you know. Notherehere. He was from Dublin. I even have Irish citizenship through him. My sister and I always said we’d come here together, but she’s just so busy with medical school, and...” I clap a hand over my mouth, and Jack’s eyes widen. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m oversharing, aren’t I?”

Jack shrugs. “I asked you a question. You answered it. Maybe it’s just the right amount of sharing.”

“Depends on the person I’m talking to.”

“Or maybe it depends on you and how much you want to say. Maybe you’re the only one who knows if it’s oversharing or just... sharing.”

“Maybe.” I look away from Jack and find a pile of bits of napkin on the bar in front of me. At some point during my monologue, I must’ve gone from fidgeting with it to tearing it apart. I hope Jack hasn’t noticed. I’m not sure where to put them without having to ask, so I sweep the bits of napkin into my palm and shove them into the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie.

What Jack said unnerved me a bit. Not in a bad way. It just wasn’t what I expected. Usually when I apologize for going on like that,people laugh it off or say it’s okay. No one has ever suggested that Iwasn’toversharing.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Jack asks.

When Jack leans toward me, his knee bumps against mine again. The way he looks at me makes me think he’s really asking, like the question isn’t just a hollow gesture to be nice. I want to scoot my stool closer and suggest a few ways he can help take my mind off of things. But I’ve already made enough bad decisions today, and sleeping with a stranger I met in a bar would surely be another. “You’re very kind, but I don’t think so. You’ve already helped enough by getting me that phone charger and the beer.”

“Happy to help,” he says. “And for what it’s worth, I really am sorry you lost all your things, especially that guitar. If you want to give me your number, I’ll keep an eye out for it and let you know if anything comes up.”

This is definitely flirting, right? I reconsider whether sleeping with this stranger I met in a bar would really be that bad of a decision. Iamin need of a place to stay tonight. And wouldn’t it bemoredangerous to travel all the way to Cork this late? Who knows what sort of people I might run into? Or who I’d end up bunking with at the hostel,ifit even has room.

If my worldwide tour is coming to an early demise, I might as well go out with a bang.

“That would be great,” I say, and try not to seem too eager when he pulls out his phone. “Raine Hart. Raine with an E, Hart without it.”

“Raine Hart,” he says, gaze flicking to mine as he types. “You were destined to be a musician with a name like that. I can already hear them saying it on the radio.Topping the charts, we have Raine Hart with her sensational single, ‘That Fella from Cobh.’ ”

I snort. “ ‘That Fella from Cobh’? That’s an awful title.”

“Maybe, but the song itself is fierce. The anthem of a generation, some say.” When I laugh, he grins at me. “Your number, Raine Hart.”

I recite my number, and he slips his phone into his pocket again. “If I hear about any Gibson guitars with Ireland stickers, I’ll let you know.”

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