by Randi Rigby
Uncertain, I held it like a baseball bat—it was heavier than it looked. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Aim here.” He pointed to a section in the living room wall. “I don’t want you to hit a post. With that arm you just might bring the house down.”
“To new beginnings!” Aunt Shae shouted just before I swung and broke a terrific hole through the drywall. Charlie barked. The family cheered. I felt a bit breathless and oddly invigorated destroying something. To new beginnings.
Outside, parked on the lawn facing the lake, was a motorhome. Pops and Gran were foregoing discovering what parts of America weren’t on fire this summer so we had some place to live while construction was going on. Dad let me and Charlie have the little bedroom in the back of the trailer. Even though Pops had the motorhome custom-made to fit his tall frame, important particularly for the shower, it was still going to be a bit of squeeze.
“Come hang out with me anytime you want,” Aunt Shae whispered leaning into me with a flash of her dazzling smile, smelling deliciously expensive, tucking a silky strand of her platinum-blonde bob back behind her ear with French-tipped nails. Mom always said Aunt Shae was high maintenance on a constant simmer.
Between setting up his practice and picking up a hammer with Uncle Bryce, who was overseeing the demolition and framing, Dad’s days and most evenings were full. He still wasn’t sleeping well at night but if he was not quite back to happy he at least looked a little less lost.
Charlie and I, on the other hand, had serious cabin fever. Austin in June was unthinkable without air conditioning. We’d started getting up at 5:30 a.m. to run. Dad took pity on us and gave me a job at his office at the front desk checking patients in, answering phones, filing, and scheduling appointments. Charlie did PR on demand. I volunteered at pet shelters on Saturdays. It still wasn’t enough.
“I want to learn how to play the guitar,” I told Dad one night after work as we squeezed into the little kitchen table in the trailer over his grilled salmon and my chipotle sweet potato strips, a hastily thrown together green salad and plenty of sweet, fat blueberries.
“Okay.”
“And learn how to knit.”
“While playing the guitar?”
I rolled my eyes. “Gran said she’d teach me. I could make you a sweater.”
“We live in Texas. I’d love one.”
I ignored that. “Also, I found a place not too far from here that offers rock climbing classes in the evenings. I did some research. They seem pretty reasonable. And they come highly reviewed. Very safe. What do you think?”
He studied me silently for a moment. “I think it sounds like you’re taking up rock climbing.” He put down his fork and helped himself to another scoop of blueberries. “Just promise me you won’t fall, Kel. Or break anything. Crutches would be a nightmare in here.
The next day after work Charlie ran errands with Dad while I walked to Strings, a music shop a few blocks away from our office. The doorway tinkled as I stepped inside. Hanging on the walls like dazzling tiles in a brightly colored mosaic were a myriad of guitars. I blinked, a little overwhelmed at the immediate vast and varied selection as I looked around.
“Hey there, can I help you with something?”
I was suddenly and strangely very aware of my heartbeat. And grateful my favorite flippy skirt was clean this morning and that Aunt Shae insisted I get my hair highlighted and reshaped when she took me to her stylist last week, even if it was currently up in a high ponytail making me look like I was twelve-years old because of the stupid heat. “Um, I’m looking for a guitar,” I stammered. Because I was. At least I think I was.
In a pivotal scene ripe for back lighting, an instrumental score, and a snappy opening line I’d already royally muffed my entrance.
Possibly the best-looking guy I’d ever seen in real life, with the kind of chiseled perfection usually reserved for male models on runways or in broody ads for GQ had left his spot behind the counter and was walking unhurried and half-smiling toward me.
Seen National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation? In the bitter cold, the Griswold family waded through snow up to their knees in search of the perfect Christmas tree out of a forest filled with trees. Suddenly they stepped into a clearing and there, bathed in a pool of celestial light, a heavenly choir proclaiming its divinity, stood their tree, enchanting and sparkly.
Seeing him standing there in a patch of late afternoon Austin sunshine, candescent and otherworldly in that white T-shirt and faded blue jeans, I felt taut and tingly and pin-pricked alert. This boy.
He was tall—taller than me, by more than a couple of inches, which felt significant, miraculous even, given how rarely it happened. In the Venn diagram defining “Kel McCoy’s Dream Man” there was no data set for too tall. He was lean and muscled. The white V-neck he wore wasn’t necessarily tight fitting but he was broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted so it pulled tight across his chest, with a slight looseness where it brushed against his beltline. His dark hair was longer on top and thick—bits of his overgrown bangs refused to lay flat and you just knew it was cowlick induced and not product. He had olive skin, high cheekbones, a strong angular jawline, generous Cupid’s bow lips and a perfectly proportioned nose. His light blue eyes were wide-set and heavily lashed.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place.” His smile broadened along with his Texas drawl, which was rich and deliciously lazy. “What’s your name?”
I found my smile. “Kel, Kel McCoy.”
“Nice to meet you Kel McCoy, I’m Drew Jarrod. First time buying a guitar?”
Focus, Kel. When you came face to face with the physical embodiment of all your dandelion blowing and shooting star wishes, you wanted to be on top of your game. “What gave me away?”
He grinned. I was rapidly becoming obsessed with the pronounced dip just above his upper lip. It was just big enough that I could settle the tip of my forefinger there, something I found I was itching to do. “That deer in the headlights look on your face when you first walked in.” I forced myself to drag my gaze back up into his eyes, which let’s be honest, were just as distracting. “Don’t worry,” Drew said. “You’re not the only one. Do you know if you want acoustic or electric?”
I finally found my footing. “Definitely acoustic. We live in a very small trailer.” With a toss of my ponytail I pulled my phone out of my handbag and showed him a picture. It was a Seagull S6 Original—my research said it was the best acoustic guitar for beginners. Worth every penny, reviewers promised. And they didn’t even know about Drew.
He nodded approvingly. “Seagull. Very nice. And you’re in luck, we even have some in stock.” He handed me back my phone, our long fingers bumping in the transition, making my skin tingle and sing at every point of contact. “This way, come on.”
Strings was a maze of displays and shelving that Drew somehow managed to navigate while still looking back at me. This boy was big on eye contact. Please, on all that’s holy, don’t let me be the one who trips.
“So Kel, you from around here?”
“Just moved here actually, from Chicago.” I nimbly sidestepped a circular upright rack holding sheet music on my side of the aisle and mentally high-fived myself.
“Chicago? What brings you to Austin?”
His question, innocent and ordinary, hit me hard. I hadn’t actually said the words out loud yet and I didn’t now on the off chance that it would make me cry. I knew at some point, probably when school started, I’d have to have something prepared, something I’d practiced. But that was a couple of months from now.
“We were ready for a change,” I temporized, forcing myself to look him squarely in the eye as I settled on something that was mostly true. “My dad is originally from Austin. I think he wanted to be closer to his family.”
Drew smiled at me. “I hear that’s a thing. Do you like it here? We treating you well?”
This time I didn’t hesitate. I responded openly, effusively, urgently. “I love it here.”
/>
And by here I meant this music shop, which had suddenly become my favorite place on the planet. Austin contained it, and Drew, so I loved Austin too. In fact, my enthusiasm for Texas in general just skyrocketed.
“Good. I’m glad.” He returned my smile, maybe just as earnestly as he lingered in the moment a beat. Outside cars might be passing by, people hurrying to get home and start dinner or meet friends after work. But right here, right now, time had sealed us off in a very tall, pearlescent bubble. Then Drew blinked. “Your Seagull.” My Seagull. He leaned over to take a guitar off a rack. “Here you go.”
Not sure what else to do, I took it from him, holding it awkwardly by the neck like a croquet mallet. “Er, thanks.”
His lips twitched. “You’re probably gonna want a strap with that. Let me show you what we’ve got here in the store. If you don’t see anything you like we can always order one for you.” His eyes were dancing. “Want me to hold that for you while you look?”
He tucked it under his arm. Of course he did.
I didn’t dither picking out a strap. I selected a black leather one with a discreet white edge pattern that was repeated on the circle around the sound hole on the guitar. It was classic and clean and would coordinate with practically everything in my wardrobe. I planned on playing this guitar a lot.
Drew looked surprised when I handed it to him. “I actually have this same strap on my Gibson—I really like it.”
“Great minds, I guess.” I shrugged, smiling. Obviously we were meant for each other.
He helped me adjust the strap for my height, which involved glorious close proximity. As you knew he would, he smelled amazing but it was more freshly scrubbed and woodsy than the result of any kind of cologne or aftershave. “You’re kinda short.” His voice rumbled in my ear, making me shiver. “Let me loosen this a bit, you’ll be more comfortable. What are you out of those heels? 6'1"?”
“Maybe freshman year. Try 6'2".”
Drew grinned. “I think that was my freshman year.”
Pushing his bangs out of those beautiful eyes, he stepped back to survey his handiwork. “That looks good.” Which wasn’t exactly the same thing as saying I looked good but I still blushed. “Hang on a bit, Kel. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into the back room and emerged moments later with a black case, which he laid on the floor at my feet, demonstrating how to put the guitar securely away and where all the storage pockets were.
“You’ll need them to hold these.” He plucked items off nearby shelves like low hanging fruit off a branch and displayed them one by one in his large hands. “Picks. An extra set of strings for when they break. And a tuner—we have others, but this one is the best bang for your buck.”
“Wow. Audrey Hepburn made this look so easy.”
“Audrey Hepburn?”
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s? Strumming Moon River on the windowsill? Really?”
“Sorry, haven’t seen it.”
“You should. I mean, Mickey Rooney will absolutely make you want to plunge a fork in your eye but everything else about it? Essential viewing.”
Drew was writing something on the tuner package with a pen he’d just pulled out of his back pocket. “Say you’ll watch it with me Kel and I just might.”
I was staring at Drew Jarrod’s phone number.
That half smile of his was devastating. He stood my guitar in its case next to me at the register. “I also give private lessons. Just give me a call or text if you’re interested and we can set something up.”
I handed him my debit card. I’d never wanted anything more.
Behind me the door tinkled; it was my father. He’d pushed up the sleeves of his dress shirt and loosened his tie since I’d seen him last—definite signs he was ready to go home. Pocketing his sunglasses, in just a few long strides he joined us at the counter. “Hey sweetheart, did you find what you were looking for?”
“I did.” I smiled at Drew whose glance was flickering from Dad to me. Freakishly tall. The McCoy lips. Hair like a Kabuki doll. Must be related. “Thanks for helping me to get set up, Drew,” I said, sliding the little sack holding all my extras off the countertop. “I’ll be in touch.”
Dad raised his eyebrows as he took the guitar case for me but thankfully said nothing until we were safely outside. “Why exactly are we getting in touch with McDreamy back there?”
“He teaches guitar lessons.” I shrugged and nonchalantly slipped on my sunglasses as I scooped Charlie up off my seat, slid in, and buckled up.
“Are these guitar lessons supervised?” Dad asked, putting the car into reverse.
“I sure hope not.” I grinned and playfully scratched Charlie behind his ears.
The moment my father headed over to the construction site after dinner, I dove for my laptop, fingers flying. You didn’t want to overdo the cyber stalking—it was too easy to slip up and reveal something you shouldn’t know, basics only. I started with Google.
Drew Jarrod played wide receiver and power forward for the MacArthur High Knights as a 6'6" junior last year—we were the same age. He was one of their top scorers in both sports but they failed to advance in district playoffs, abruptly ending their seasons.
Drew’s Twitter was filled with mostly music related tweets—his musical tastes were all over the map. But there were also a few pictures, which I lingered over. Unsurprisingly, given that face, he was very photogenic. His Instagram confirmed this; the camera loved Drew. Most were taken with friends, a lot of them in the water or on a boat. But he was always surrounded by beautiful girls, many happily hanging off his neck or with arms wrapped around his waist; just never, it seemed, the same ones.
I picked up my phone and pulled up his number. And yes, I’d already entered him into my contacts. Defying my family’s strict rule about cell phone use when another breathing and awake human being was close by and deserving of personal attention, I’d plugged it in on the drive home from Strings so I wouldn’t lose it.
“This is Drew.”
“Hi Drew, this is Kel McCoy, I was in your shop earlier today buying a Seagull?”
“Kel McCoy. The girl who’s going to make me watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s with her?”
“Hey, Audrey Hepburn is a revelation in that—there should be no arm twisting involved. I’m calling about lessons. Do you have anything available in the evenings? I work until 5:00 Monday through Friday.”
“Really? What do you do?”
I blinked in surprise at his unexpected question. “My dad is an oral surgeon. I work in his office, we’re just down the street from you, actually.”
“Austin Oral?”
“That’s the one.”
“Don’t put ketchup on him. Now you’re just being wasteful. Hang on a sec, Kel?”
“Sure.” There was a lot of laughing in the background. A dog was barking. I could hear Drew telling someone to clean the mess up.
“Sorry, I’m back. I’m babysitting. Do you have any little brothers or sisters?”
“No, I’m an only child.”
“Want some?”
“How many are we talking?”
“You can have all three. And the dog. Although he smells like condiments at the moment.”
I smiled and hugged my knees. “Sorry, we live in a really small trailer, remember?”
“Oh yeah, why is that? I mean, it’s none of my business but isn’t your dad a doctor/dentist?”
“It’s kind of a long story but he’s building our house.”
“Building it himself or having it built?”
“Building it himself. Mostly. Yes.”
“Okay, that does sound like a long story. And sometime when I can hear myself think I’m going to get it out of you. Give me a sec to look at my calendar? I’m putting you on speaker. Guys, come on, I’m on speakerphone, keep it down.” They didn’t keep it down. They got noticeably louder. “Ryan, I swear, put that in Will’s pants and you’re getting swirlied. I am NOT kidding. Sorry Kel, I’m a crazy person right no
w. I’d go in the other room and shut the door but I’m afraid they’d kill each other if I left them unsupervised. I’ve got Monday open right after you’re done with work. Can you make it to Strings by 5:15?”
“I can.”
“Great, see you Monday at 5:15 then.”
“I’ll be there.”
There seemed to be some sort of fighting going on in the background. He was almost shouting now in order to be heard. “I’m sorry, what?!”
“I’ll be there!” Now I was yelling. Charlie looked alarmed.
“DON’T FORGET YOUR GUITAR.”
I immediately began practicing with some Australian guy with his own YouTube channel who seemed legit and emphasized the importance of technique. I’d planned on impressing Drew by appearing to be a fast learner but quickly realized I wasn’t going to get away with it. By Sunday night my fingertips were so sore I wanted to layer them in bubble wrap. Rock climbing class was excruciating. Knitting with Gran, also a bust. Obviously, timing-wise, I didn’t think my goal setting choices through very well.
It took me extra long to get ready for work Monday morning, and not just because I was being girly. I mean, yes, I changed my entire outfit three times and my shoes twice but it was hard to straighten your hair and apply makeup in a trailer bathroom the size of a shoebox when your fingers were all blistered.
I forced myself to stay busy all day so I’d stop watching the clock. Finally, at 4:55 I stepped into the office restroom to check my teeth for anything weird and touch up my lipstick. What are you doing, Kel? I shook my head. That boy is going to break your heart.
It was no good telling my reflection it was just a guitar lesson. We both knew better.
A busty brunette with pouty lips and wearing Daisy Dukes and high-heeled wedges was leaning over the counter talking to Drew when I walked into Strings carrying my guitar case.
“Hey Kel,” Drew’s smile was immediate and just for me, which did strange things to my insides. “Jason, my 5:15 is here. Can you help Stacy? She’s thinking about buying a karaoke machine. Catalog is on the counter. Jason here will take good care of you,” he told Stacy, excusing himself as he stepped out to meet me.