We’re the same age, maybe a few months apart, but she’s always seemed younger, like a child that I had to be careful around. She was good at school—student council, honor society…shit like that. I scraped by. Football, basketball, and girls—that’s how I spent my time. And damn, when Ray started putting me on stage, the girls part got really easy.
By the time I was a senior, Avery wasn’t interested in listening to me play any more. I didn’t really care because she was never my type. Somehow, though, she’s the only thing on my goddamned mind this morning.
This house is so quiet. I think Ray’s awake; I swear I can hear something happening in the kitchen downstairs. Everything in this house is old, but the kitchen is from the fifties. The cabinets have been painted yellow a few times, so much so they stick when you open them. The stove has coils, and they smell when you turn it on—burning off whatever was cooked last. The fridge vibrates when you open it because the suction is so strong you actually need to brace part of it with your foot when you tug on the door.
It’s almost eight in the morning, and I’ve been up for the last two hours. I pull my guitar onto my lap and strum it once, just to see if anyone notices.
Nothing.
I’ll play lightly. Avery and Max’s bedroom is on the other end of the hall, so I don’t think I’ll wake them. I loop the strap over my head, and position myself with my knee bent on the corner of the mattress. It’s not ideal, but I haven’t touched my guitar in days. I start to get scared I’ll forget what it feels like, where to put my fingers, if I don’t at least play for a few minutes.
This guitar has always been home. As soon as I touch the strings, I’m gone—there’s this melody I’ve been trying to work out for weeks. I haven’t written in months, but this one phrase seems to keep repeating every time I play. There’s something wrong with it, but I just can’t seem to work it out. It’s kind of like my life.
My eyes are closed when I hear the sound of someone’s breathing. It’s not Ray, because his is heavy—labored. I’m hoping—damn it, I’m actually hoping—that I’ll see Avery at my door, when I peel one eye open and look right at Max.
He’s not surprised to see me. Avery must have explained to him that I’d be in their house. He doesn’t even seem to be nervous around a stranger. He’s just staring intently at my hands, watching my fingers move up and down the length of the guitar. It’s like he’s memorizing every movement, the way his eyes twitch a little with every motion.
I don’t know what to say to him. Fuck, I’m shit with kids. I’ve never really been around them, except for my friends when we were growing up, but I don’t think that counts. I just keep playing instead of talking, and Max seems to be fine with that.
I start to change up the melody a little, and Max clearly notices, his eyes flashing wider for a fraction of a second—like a computer memorizing more data. He hasn’t moved a single step from his position in the very center of my doorway. His hands are limp at his sides, and he’s swaying a little. I’ve played for a good five or six minutes under his watch, and at this point I’m not even being quiet anymore.
“Do you want to try?” I say, my hands still making music.
Max doesn’t answer, but just continues to stare. I’m not sure what’s wrong with him. I know he doesn’t like to look people in the eyes—I got that much from last night. And I know he doesn’t like to talk much. Hell, I don’t either—I get him more than he knows.
The sounds downstairs start to pick up, so I stop strumming and pull the guitar strap from around my neck. Max is still looking at it, but not moving from his spot. I lean it against the edge of the mattress, there and available, while I leave the room. Maybe it’s just a weird fantasy, but part of me feels like maybe if I’m not looking, Max will pick it up and start to play.
I’m halfway down the stairs when I lean back to peek to see if Max has gone into my room, but he hasn’t. I can still see his feet, his body swaying in the doorway. He probably doesn’t want to get in trouble with his mom—I can see Avery being strict with him, telling him not to touch stuff that isn’t his.
As soon as the smell hits my senses, I’m suddenly fifteen again. Ray’s skillet is bubbling with bacon and sausage—and I swear it’s swimming in the very same grease it was when he used to make me breakfast years ago.
“Now that’s how a man likes to wake up,” I say, pulling my arms over my head into a wide stretch and patting Ray on the back.