day two: the guitar

the prompt: learning guitar. thanks, Johanna!

There’s a knock at my door right when I’m in the middle of the fifth episode of How I Met Your Mother. I yank my earbuds out of my ears, pause Netflix, sit up, and go to the door, hoping that whoever’s there doesn’t mind my white shirt and sweatpants.

I run a hand through my hair and pull open the door.

It’s Chris.

“Oh.” I shift, feeling awkward. “Hi.”

“Hey, can I come in?”

“Sure.” I step aside and he shuffles through the doorway, dragging a bulky guitar case behind him. “What can I … do for you?” That’s the right course of action, right? To ask him why he came? Mom is so much better at this.

He smiles, a smile that immediately makes me feel a little more comfortable. “Just got done with band practice, and I was driving by here anyway. Thought I’d come say hi and make the most of it.”

“Oh. Okay.” I smooth my hands down my shirt. “Well, as you can see I wasn’t really expecting visitors…”

“Don’t worry about it.” He sets his guitar case down, kneels, and starts unlatching it. “Mind if I…?”

“Uh.” I purse my lips. “No. Sure. Go right ahead.” I run a hand through my hair. Again. I’m feeling frazzled.

 “Can I… get you anything to drink?”

“What do you got?”

I rack my brain, trying to think of what we’ve got stocked in the fridge. “Uh… my mom made lemonade this morning?” It comes out like a question.

He looks at me over his shoulder. Still smiling, his grin lighting up the whole room. Ugh. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

“O…kay.” I turn on my heel and head into the kitchen, then pull out a glass and pour some lemonade. What is this? I’m playing mom’s role as hostess. This has never happened. And I hate it.

Darn, you, Chris, for coming in and interrupting my quality bonding time with Netflix.

I exit the kitchen again, the cold glass of lemonade already sweating in my hand. “Here.”

“Thanks.” He takes it; our fingers brush. He gestures to my couch. “Mind if I sit?”

At least he’s asking. “Sure.”

He falls into the blue sofa and props his guitar on his knee. He puts his fingers across the strings and plucks a few notes in quick succession. Nobody should be able to play like that.

I am torn between returning to Barney and Robin and sitting and listening to music. I decide to sit. I don’t have a guitar—and a guy—in my house every day. This is momentous. I should pay attention.

I walk into the family room and sit on the one-seater chair that looks like a box more than anything. “So, how was band practice?” Good. That’s something that you should ask. Four for you, Evyn.

“It was great.” He drags his finger across the strings and they make a “hum” sound. “Have you met any of them?”

“Just Mum,” I say.

“Ah. And he didn’t send you running for the hills?”

“Not yet.”

He purses his lips. “I’m impressed.”

“Yeah, well, I’m guessing he’s the most eccentric out of all of you?” I’m half hoping for him to say yes.
He laughs out loud. “No.”

I shoot him a questioning glance.

“Trust me. We’re all eccentric.” He shrugs, then nods to Dad’s guitar, sitting lonely on its stand in the corner.

“You play?”

“No. It’s my dad’s.”

“Does he play?”

“Not anymore.”

He arches his eyebrows at this, but doesn’t press further. “But you don’t play?”

“No.”

“Sad.” He fake-pouts. “I always love playing with other guitar players. Especially girls.”

“Excuse me?”

“I like girls. They’ve called me a heartbreaker before.”

“I think you should leave then,” I say, only half-joking.

“Relax. It’s my day off. No broken hearts today.”

“Phew,” I say, dragging my hand across my forehead far too dramatically, an exaggerated act of sarcasm. Everything in me is resisting this. I just want him to leave.

I’m really not very social, am I?  Maybe I do need to go into the outside world more often.

“So. If you don’t play guitar now, would you be interested in learning?”

I frown. “No.”

“Really?”

This catches me off-guard. “Uh… no. I really don’t want to play guitar if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Is there a reason?”

I could deck him. “No.” The lie slips out before I can think about it. “I mean… yes. I mean, no.”

Thankfully he doesn’t seem to notice my blundering because he’s arranging his fingers in an elaborate chord.
I hate myself for it, but I have to ask. “What chord is that?”

He looks up in surprise. “I thought you didn’t want to know.”

“Just tell me.”

“Fmaj7.”

“Oh.” Somehow, knowing that makes me feel closer to the past, to the days of music that aren’t here anymore. The memories float through my head and I find myself standing, walking over to the guitar stand, and brushing my fingers across my metal neck. In the background, Chris strums a wistful set of chords. It’s as if my life is a movie and he is the soundtrack. And if my life was a movie, this would be the corny redemption scene where the heroine finally figures out her whole entire life.

Pfft. Please. Life never works that way.

But I wish it did.

I brush my fingers across the strings and push all thoughts out of my head. I wish he still played.

I wrap my fingers around the neck, debating whether to pull the guitar from its roots.

“Bring it over,” Chris says behind me.

My shoulders fall in defeat, but I bring it over because I do want this. I have always wanted this. It feels right somehow, making up for past mistakes and broken hearts and shattered dreams by doing the one thing my dad refuses to do. I sit down on the loveseat instead of the chair and set the bulky instrument down on my thigh. It feels far too big for me.

I look down at the neck, marveling at how different a guitar looks when it’s on your lap.  I rest my fingers against the strings, gently, like I’m afraid to push too hard. I’ve always been afraid to push too hard, and not just with guitar strings.

All of a sudden Chris sets his guitar down and kneels next to me. His head is bent as he touches my fingers. I tense up.

He looks up at me. “Relax. Like I said, I don’t bite.”

I still feel like my whole body’s on edge, but I try to let my hand relax.

He presses his lips together. “Put your finger here…” He moves my middle finger to the second string, pressing down gently to make it stick. His touch makes my head spin. I’ve never had a guy touch my hands.
“And… here.” He moves my ring finger to the third string. He looks up at me then sits back on his haunches. “That’s E minor.”

I nod. He bends backwards and pulls a guitar pick out of the black, fuzzy interior of his guitar case. He hands it to me. It’s flimsy, plastic, and dark blue. My dad used heavier picks than this, but somehow the lighter one feels… right.

“Okay,” I say, feeling like I’m walking on ice.

“Now strum.” He smiles, and his eyes light up, and for a second, without consulting me, my heart melts.
I press my two fingers against the guitar pick and then hesitantly, gently pull it across the strings. The sound that floods the air is immediately familiar to me. It makes my stomach drop. All those nights when I was a little girl, this chord filled the air the most. It’s sad. Melodromatic. Thoughtful. And, for some reason, even though it was sad, I loved it, in a strange, sad way. Hearing it fill this room once again makes me feel like I’m drowning.

 Chris seems oblivious, thank God. “What do you think?”

“It’s… great.” I swallow hard, trying to get the lump in my throat to go down. “Hey, is there a…nother chord?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Fast learner. I’m impressed.” He tips his head in thought for a moment, then nods. “Okay, yeah. Here’s the second one I learned. It’s pretty easy, and goes well with E minor.”

I never want to play the E minor chord again, but okay, I respond silently in my head.

He grabs my fingers again and this time I’m a bit more ready for it, but it still makes me feel queasy. He moves my two fingers down a string, then positions my pinky on the fourth. “There. That’s A.”

I squeeze the guitar pick, almost afraid of what this chord will sound like and what memories it will bring. Before I can take the time to dread it, I scrape my pick downward against the strings, harsh and fast. The sound that I hear, though, is pleasantly surprising. I don’t feel like I’m about to lose my lunch. This chord sounds more uplifting, a little bit easier to stomach. And it’s by far not as familiar. I play it again. It reminds me of spring.

A smile spreads across my face without me forcing it. “Ah. I like that one.”

He smiles. “Me too.”