by Ann Aguirre
He’s pretty cute, if you like black hair and dark eyes. Jace’s probably in his early twenties and he’s failing to grow a goatee. I’m interested in the drama unfolding before us; this is almost as good as live music. It’s entertainment anyway. But the older women don’t seem to agree, bitching as Jace argues with the barista. The injury isn’t fake, though. His hand is swollen, black and blue across the knuckles. If he really had a flat, then broke his phone, he’s on course for the worst day ever.
Shane cuts me a look that I can’t interpret. So I’m just looking at him when he puts down his hot chocolate and heads over to the counter. Because I’m straining, I hear him say, “I could fill in for him, just for today. Should be better than nothing.”
He’s incredible, I want to say, but I register how much of a big deal it is that Shane’s volunteered at all. Just a few weeks ago, he was talking about how he wanted to lie low and graduate. Now, he’s willing to play music in public. If I know anything about him, I suspect he’s doing it to help the guy out more than from pure desire, but he’s not backing off as the barista looks him up and down.
“Are you any good?” the girl asks.
Shane shrugs. He’s not going to sell himself to them.
But Jace hands over his beat-up guitar case. “The picks are in there, too.” Then he faces the room, raising his voice to carry over the complaints of multiple coffee klatches. “We have a special treat today at the Coffee Shop. One show only—” Jace glances over at his replacement, and Shane fills in his name in a low voice. “We have Shane Cavendish, live and unplugged.”
The applause that follows is mostly mine, though a few girls brighten up as Shane arranges himself on the stool, long legs propped to support the guitar. Jace collapses where Shane was, right next to me, and he looks both exhausted and relieved. His hand looks like he might have broken fingers, and that can’t be good for a musician.
As Shane settles in with the pick, strumming the guitar experimentally, I whisper, “Shouldn’t you see a doctor?”
Jace shushes me since Shane’s short warm-up has concluded and he’s playing the opening chords of a song. At first I can’t place it, but then I realize it’s an arrangement of “The Reckless and the Brave”; I really like All Time Low’s version, which rocks, but this is … more. You know how sometimes an acoustic version brings out things you didn’t notice before? Yeah. That. Plus, Shane’s voice. When I heard him in the music room before, he was only playing. Only. That’s like saying Michelangelo was just a guy who liked to carve shapes in rocks.
I’m not alone in going breathless, however. All the talking stops immediately, just as soon as Shane sings the first lines. He’s got rich tone with just a hint of a growl, and it underscores the aching strains he evokes in a melody I’d previously considered pugnacious, defiant even. But somehow, the way he plays the song, along with the slower melody, he elicits a touch of pathos. The girls behind me let out a collective sigh when he sings the line, “I don’t think I want to be saved,” because he sounds like he’s drowning, and I’m pretty sure everyone in the room wants to rescue him.
I do, too.
“Wow,” Jace breathes. “This is a badass cover.”
I can only nod.
Without a single word of segue or explanation, Shane sings the last notes and immediately begins the next song. This one takes me even longer to identify; the Pretty Reckless isn’t my favorite band, though I like Taylor Momsen’s voice. If the first song was soulful, this one is a broken heart; it’s every bad marriage that ever fell apart, every family splintered, and everyone who’s ever seen somebody they love drive off in the middle of the night. As he sings, I can imagine a couple fighting in the street—she’s drunk and he’s broken. Oh God, Shane does broken so beautifully.
I can’t stand it.
I never cry in public, but I can feel the tears starting, a hot burn in my eyes. Shit. At least I’m not wearing mascara. Beside me, Jace stirs, but I only have eyes for Shane. Suddenly I can’t breathe, can’t figure out what the hell he sees in me, but I can’t look away, either. And that’s when I realize, his eyes are locked on mine. Until this moment, I didn’t notice; I thought he was off in music land, but he’s lost in me instead. Though he’s not letting on, he’s scared and I’m holding him steady. I wonder if he’s ever performed in public before. Somehow I manage an encouraging smile.
That’s it. Sing to me. Just me.
When he sings the question, “Do you understand who I am?” I nod because the answer to any question he asks me will always be yes. Maybe I’m in too deep, too fast. I haven’t known him for very long, all things considered, but I’m falling in love, song by song. The room is dead silent when he finishes this one, like the audience doesn’t dare breathe, let alone applaud, but Shane doesn’t need motivation to continue. He’s already strumming the next number.
I’m surprised to recognize a song by an Australian band, one I’d swear few people in the U.S. know about yet. I found them on YouTube, so I guess it makes sense that Shane did, too. And this song. OMG. It breaks my heart because I could be singing it to him, asking these questions. “Why, why me? When you could have had anybody.” I ask myself if he’s singing this for a reason, if he saw how much I doubt belonging with someone like him, someone hot and talented.
I’m so not enough. I can’t be. I smile, and I act happy, and I pretend. I’m the queen of bright and shiny things, eternally looking for the positive and seeking a silver lining in the dark. He’s dating a girl I invented three years ago because the real me is horrible, and I wanted to leave her behind, along with the group home and the court-mandated therapy sessions. I want so bad to be normal, but I never can be.
I can’t. Not after what I’ve done.
The tears slip down, but I’m not alone. Other women look misty, but this number isn’t as sad as the others. He infuses this one with a sweetness that melts the females in the audience, regardless of age. Shane cradles them all in long, graceful fingers; he has them hanging on his every word, every note. The women are all breathless and smiling by the time he winds the song down, ending on a sexy flourish.
The next one, I don’t know at all, but as I listen, I know I’ll be looking for it online to compare the original with Shane’s version, which is somewhere between melancholy and bittersweet. To me, it feels like he’s singing about endings, letting go, and saying good-bye. We both know too much about that, he and I. I listen and dry up my tears, eyes half closed with the sheer power of Shane’s voice. He should have his own channel online, where he posts videos of himself singing. I suspect he’d have a million views and record companies wanting to sign him. I see that future stretched ahead of him like a strand of pearls, and I don’t see a place for me there. Sometimes when you meet someone, you can glimpse the future around them like swirls of smoke, and he’s like that, marked for greatness. Someday people will watch him on TV and onstage; and they’ll marvel they knew him, even for a little while.
I’m marveling now.
Finally, he speaks, pausing in his performance. “This is actually meant to be a duet, but I like the song so much that I’m going to try it solo. Be gentle, okay?”
Soft laughter greets his words, which tells me he’s won the room completely. From there, he flows right into a dreamy-folksy number, more upbeat though still with plenty of heart. This song feels like it’s about healing and new beginnings, and I memorize a few of the lines, so I can Google them later. When I get home, I’ll discover some new band. I can envision how it would sound sung in harmony. Beautiful. That could be my theme, and I’m smiling along with the rest of the listeners when he finishes.
Good Charlotte is up next, one of my favorite bands. But Shane picks “Wondering” instead of a more popular choice, like “The Anthem.” His arrangement is unique and masterful, using not just the strings of the guitar but thumps on the body as well. He’s confident now, and he seems to be having fun. Music is such a personal thing, but it lights him up when he plays. I’
ve never been to the ocean, but I imagine Shane’s eyes look exactly like sunlight on the Caribbean, and in this moment, they’re shining just for me. His hair tumbles over his forehead as he plays, rocking a little. I could watch him forever.
Apparently the audience agrees because when he tries to stand up and take an awkward bow to indicate he’s done, someone shouts, “Encore!”
“I never get asked for an encore,” Jace mumbles.
“That’s my whole set list,” Shane says.
“Not even one more?” a girl from our school begs.
Yeah, this performance will probably change his status at school a lot. He won’t be a nobody that Dylan Smith can easily push around; and that makes me happy, even while I wonder how it’ll affect us. I mean, I don’t think that Shane is so shallow that he’ll ditch me for the first hot girl who flips her hair when he walks by. Still, I’m nervous. My life has already changed so much, so fast.
I don’t know if I can handle more.
His cheeks are flushed when he sits back down. “I do have an original song I’ve been working on. Would you like to hear it?”
They convince him with applause this time. I notice the barista perched on the bar; nobody has stirred to buy drinks or order muffins this whole time. Shane’s captivated the whole room, and I 100 percent understand why. I can’t look away either. So naturally, they applaud to encourage him, and he launches into something new.
“Monday, midnight / People say it’ll be all right / I see the tunnel / But there’s no light.”
It’s a simple melody, but haunting. The people around me seem to be barely breathing. “Life is bitter, bittersweet / It all changed in a heartbeat / Too little, too late / Only my heart to break / I close my eyes and / I fade away / fade away.”
I listen as he sings on, pouring his heart into this song. There’s so much raw sorrow in his voice that I could cry listening to him, and I already fought it down once. His music is a direct line to emotions I’ve pretended I don’t feel anymore. I’m afraid to be sad or angry, afraid Shadow Sage will slip her chain and I’ll find myself in the dark place again. I can’t afford that when I’ve fought so hard to stay in the light. His voice scours me raw; he’s relentless.
“Sunday, sunny day / Wish the world would go away / Dreams cost too much / And I can’t pay.” From there, he shifts smoothly into the chorus. “Life is bitter, bittersweet…”
I close my eyes.
His voice deepens on this verse. “Wednesday, gray dawn / All night, I left the music on. / The silence is too loud / Without your song.”
This must be about his mother. So many questions occur to me then, and they drive away my own pain. Shane has that power over me, and I’m grateful for it. The chorus flows over me. “Life is bitter, bittersweet.” I hate that he’s hurting. I mean, I knew it, but the lyrics drive the point home. He must’ve felt so helpless, unable to do anything to make his mom get better, and yet he never ran like his dad. That takes a special sort of strength.
Shane takes a breath, then sings the last verse, soft and low. “Friday, evening, / Is when I stopped believing. / Wanna find my smile again / But I can’t stop grieving.”
The final refrain flows in his soulful baritone, only he changes it up on the last few lines. “I close my eyes and / I fade away / Don’t let me / … fade away.”
I can be forgiven for hoping that he’s singing that last part to me. I’m aching to console him. He comes off his stool and surprises me by striding directly toward me. When he pulls me up into his arms for a public kiss, it’s the best moment of my life.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
There are twenty-five people in the coffee shop; it’s not exactly a huge audience, but from the sound of their clapping, you’d think there were a hundred people in here. This startles Shane into breaking the kiss. I swear he forgot there were other people around us, and my heart soars. He was singing just for me. A few of them even push to their feet. At first I think it’s a standing ovation, but instead they’re moving forward with bills crumpled in their hands.
“Not that this isn’t romantic … but where’s your tip jar?” a woman asks.
Shane pulls back, sheepish. He glances around with a blank look, and I quickly grab an oversize coffee mug from the shelf, then pass it around. If I know this boy at all, he’s frozen. Before, he was caught up in the moment, but deep down, he’s pretty shy. He needs the money, so I’ll help him collect it. I don’t mind; it’s always easier to be strong for someone else.
“You’re really good,” the barista tells him. “If you want, I’ll talk to Barbara about giving you a permanent spot in the showcase.”
“Not mine, I hope,” Jace mumbles.
But the complaint has no teeth. The guy hasn’t even asked for his guitar back.
Shane hands the instrument over. “Thanks, man.”
“No prob. You’re really good, dude.” Jace gives the compliment easily, which makes me like him. “We should get together and play sometime. What’s your number?”
“Just leave a message for me here, okay?”
Shane doesn’t have a phone, cell or otherwise. I know that about him, but Jace doesn’t, and seems to think Shane’s blowing him off. “Right. Whatever.”
“I have to get home,” I cut in.
“Right. Catch you later.” Shane waves at the crowd in general and they give him another round of applause.
Quickly, I clean all the bills out of the mug we borrowed, set it on the shelf, and then lead the way out of the Coffee Shop. I hand him the money as we reach the sidewalk. He counts his haul carefully, smoothing out the crumpled ones and fives. Then he stares at me, astonished. “There’s eighty-seven bucks here.”
“Put it away,” I advise.
He gets out his wallet like he’s dreaming. Though I’m not trying to be nosy, I can see there’s nothing in it.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to stop by the P&K before I head home. That’s the opposite direction from your house.”
I can see he’s torn. He needs groceries, but he wants to walk me home, too. There’s no easy way to do both.
“Go shopping,” I tell him. “But be careful. It’ll be really late before you—” Then it occurs to me. I know someone who has a car. “Hang on.” Shane’s frowning as I dial. “Conrad? What’re you doing?”
“Watching TV with my mom,” Conrad says.
“Listen, can you give Shane a ride home? It would help a lot.”
He’s so chill that he doesn’t ask questions, and he won’t wonder about where Shane lives. A lot of people live in trailers because they own land, but they can’t afford to build just yet.
“Yeah, it’s cool. Where?”
“Pick him up at the P&K in half an hour. Thanks, man. We owe you.” It gives me a warm feeling to use the word we in that context.
But Shane’s frowning at me when I disconnect. He crosses his arms, making it clear he’s pissed. “I could’ve walked. It’s fine.”
So I try to explain. “This is what friends do, help each other.”
“Conrad’s not my friend. I barely know the guy.”
“I’ve known him for a while. He has a good heart.” It didn’t even occur to me that Shane would get prickly over this. Who wants to walk five miles home in the dark while carrying grocery bags? I thought I made things better.
Apparently not.
“I told you before, I don’t like it when you do shit like this. I can manage my own life, Sage. You may feel sorry for me, but I’m dealing. I got by long before I met you.” A number of responses battle in my head, but before I can offer any of them, he spins and heads off, muttering over one shoulder, “I gotta go. Apparently I only have half an hour to get to the store and do my shopping.”
My stomach feels sick. I considered only how much I worry about Shane, never once imagining how I might be making him feel. I’d hate it if anyone felt sorry for me. But I don’t pity him; that’s not it all, I just want to help. I’ve gotten good at fixing things ov
er the past three years. It’s an easy part of myself to offer, but he doesn’t want that from me.
After today, he might not want anything at all.
For a few seconds, I stand there, staring upward. It’s a clear night, a blue velvet gown of a sky dressed in diamond stars, but I feel like such an idiot that I can’t appreciate any of it. I do my best to shake it off, then I trudge home. For a day that started out awesome, this one went to hell pretty fast. I’m happy Aunt Gabby is on the phone with Joe when I get back. That way, I can disappear into my room. I love her but she’s all about talking about my emotions, and sometimes I can’t manage it. My feelings are awful and messy and it seems best, today, to ball them up and pretend they don’t exist, even though I can feel them chewing at me from the inside.
I don’t cry myself to sleep.
In fact, I don’t sleep. Much.
The next morning, I look like hell. There isn’t enough concealer to cover the crappy night I had. Over breakfast, Gabby takes one look at me and asks, “Did you have bad dreams? Your mom?”
“No,” I manage to say. “Just a rough night.”
I used to struggle with insomnia, so she’s not surprised. She just nods and kisses my cheek. “Let me know if I can do anything.”
By that I hope she means some herbal tea, not more counseling or actual meds. While sleeping pills knock me out, they also leave me feeling thick and disconnected. I hate taking them, so I was glad when my aunt let me stop. When I first came to stay with her, she hovered. She fussed. She acted like I was delicate machinery about to break down. And this is exactly how I make Shane feel, like I see him as a project or a problem to solve instead of a person—and that’s so far from the truth. Right now I feel miserable and helpless, a delightful combination on Monday morning. Though I haven’t known Shane as long as Ryan, this is ten times worse than our faux breakup.
Just then, my phone pings. A glance tells me it’s from Ryan. Speak of the devil. I have to work this afternoon, so I don’t have time to get into whatever he has in mind—but he isn’t asking me to get together. Instead he just says, I get it, ok? I’m sorry about everything.