“No, it’s fine.” Distracted, he turned around twice, then picked up a bag of brushed chrome bushings. “Traded Nicky for these. Did I tell you he’s putting green tuning heads on that Rogue of his?”
Shaking my head, I played the C7 again. It sounded sweeter this time. Like music instead of practice, and that was the goal. “He’d be better off buying a new guitar.”
“Exactly what I said.”
Dave didn’t look up from his workbench. Instead of taking cars apart, Dave restored old guitars. Sometimes, we spent whole afternoons scouring thrift shops and flea markets for them.
A guitar with possibilities put a light in his eyes. Always so tender, his hands would skim the body, studying the instrument’s curves. In the end, he always said, “I guess I have to take her home.” Then he did, over and over.
Each time, he swore he’d refurbish the guitar and sell it—his contribution toward the recording studio time we needed to cut our demo. But Dave’s collection of guitars never shrank. It just kept growing.
Running scales, I watched Dave thoughtfully. He’d gotten his hair cut a little too short. It didn’t spike out, but it wasn’t as smooth as it usually was. Morning sunlight sparkled in the field of blond, making him look a little like a Japanese manga character. His red plaid shirt brought his color out—and made his mouth look like candy.
From my corner on the couch, I measured him with looks and memories. In the beginning, we were music, first and foremost. Even though that had turned into my hot hands under his white T-shirts, and his lips on mine, music was still our center.
Because we were good at lyrics but not titles, we called ourselves Dasa. Our first names, smashed together. His first, because Sada looked either depressing or cruel, depending on your frame of mind. Fortunately, Dasa looked good on a chalkboard marquee.
We hadn’t had any big professional gigs yet, but we played a lot of local shows and coffee shops. Parties like Tricia’s and a couple bat and bar mitzvahs. The community college radio station loved us. We made decent money selling our mini-CDs online. And none of it would have happened if it weren’t for coincidence.
We met freshman year, two gangly, goofy dorks who both brought guitars to school on the first day. For me, it was a security blanket. Carrying a guitar always gave me something to talk about with strangers. Pulling it out and playing whatever was popular was a good way to start making friends.
I sat on the top step of the atrium, where all the underclassmen congregated. I wore brand-new shoes and even newer jeans—and back then, really unfortunate braces.
Thirty minutes before first bell, I’d already played through most of the Billboard Top 40. I’d met three girls who would share classes with me, a couple of guys who wanted to ask questions about the guitar, and then there was Dave. Just as I finished off some Taylor Swift by request, a voice behind me asked, “Know any Iron and Wine?”
Tipping my head back, I smiled. My whole heart jumped up, because there was this guy, a really rather cute guy, hefting his guitar case up for me to see. He stood there, waiting for an invitation, so I slid over a little. Shaking my fingers out, I slid into the first chords of “Flightless Bird, American Mouth” and waited for him to join in.
And he did, singing along in a sweet tenor. Everyone near us stopped, turning to listen. It was a delicate song, with notes that drifted into the air like dandelion silk. Harmonizing with him, I sang along when we hit the second chorus.
Eyes meeting, we didn’t shy away. It was like we’d been singing together forever, not for a few minutes. There was a special current there, something instinctive. Our voices darted and tumbled, swirling together effortlessly.
Parts of that morning were preserved in my memory, kept pristine no matter how much time passed. I remember that the sky was unmarked blue, but it smelled like rain coming. That the stone steps in the atrium were rough and cold and never warmed up. And that when we finally stopped playing there was applause, but I didn’t really hear it.
“Do you write?” Dave asked. He curled his arms around his guitar. A silver ring on his thumb hummed against the strings. It was a low, whispering sound that I felt on my skin.
I answered with a lazy chord and a nod. “A little. Do you?”
“Yeah.”
For a moment, we ran out of words. The music was so good, so easy. Talking wasn’t like that. We were just a couple of fourteen-year-olds on the first day of school. Strangers, and potential losers, suddenly weirdly aware of each other.
To patch up the gap, I checked my position and picked out a few notes that I hoped he recognized. “Creep,” by Radiohead. It was ancient, but it was the ultimate I feel awkward anthem.
His expression transformed with a smile. All at once, his too-soft face resolved into richer angles. High cheekbones and blue-gray eyes that crinkled when he smiled. His bangs fell casually across his brow, and he smiled the smile of somebody who’d already gotten his braces off. I barely had time to wonder what it would be like to feel his lips on mine when he leaned over and graced me with one perfect kiss.
When he pulled back, he looked dazed. I felt it. With shaking hands, I found my chord and looked to him shyly. Falling into the music with me, Dave extended the opening long enough to say, “I have a studio in my garage, sort of. If you ever want to come play.”
Later, he told me he’d never carried a guitar with him. He’d just woken up that day, the first day of high school, and decided he should. At the time, it felt like destiny. Then it felt like love, and it still did. Dave was spun sugar, the sweetest kiss—I loved the way he laughed in my ear and whispered my name.
With a brand-new kiss, Dave drew me back to the present. His breath was warm, lingering on my lips. When he drew back, there was a smile in his eyes. Leaning forward, he bumped my nose and said, “So . . . ?”
Usually that was a sign that it was time to put music aside for a while. Making out with Dave was fun, ice cream on a hot day.
The phantom of Will’s kiss stung my lips. It burned, a brand that sent heat through me. It rushed with each heartbeat, not sweet at all. I felt the shock all over again, the pull when he opened his eyes and looked in mine. Was it just lust? Was I just jealous of the attention Dave got—and gave?
There was only one way to find out.
SIX
“Dave,” I said, setting my guitar between my feet.
For once, music could wait. Even though I’d melted back in this couch with Dave too many times to count, suddenly I felt shy. My palms went sweaty, and my heart started to waver. Twisting in the couch, I got to my knees and leaned over the back of it. Reaching out, I managed to rasp my fingertips against his back. “Hey, you.”
“Hey,” he replied with a smile. Flecks of sawdust drifted from his workbench. Bright stars in a streak of sunlight, they fell gracefully to earth. Teasing, he let his caressing hands slip off the half-finished guitar. “You want something?”
Wanting something was an understatement.
I wasn’t about to say, Yes, come over here and make me forget the boathouse. So instead, I tugged the hem of his shirt and half met his eyes. Then I shocked myself by skating way too close to danger by asking, “Have you heard from Simon since you drove him home?”
“No, why?”
I beckoned him with a crooked finger, pulling my guitar into my lap. “Oh, because you were too busy playing taxi, I didn’t get a chance to tell you the whole story. Our friend Simon was this close to hooking up with Emmalee Dekker.”
Abandoning the workbench, Dave wandered closer. He didn’t have a roll in his hips, but there was something definitely slow and sure in his step. “No way.”
“I have the texts to prove it. While you were driving Simon home, I was directing her back to Tricia’s guesthouse. She was so grateful when she texted earlier. Said she’d gotten coyote drunk . . .”
“And you saved her from h
aving to gnaw her arm off in the morning.”
“Exactly,” I said and curled up a little when Dave kissed my neck. Walking his fingers against my arm, he nudged at the guitar. “I thought you wanted me to come over here.”
Still attempting to flirt with my own boyfriend, I teased, “I did. I’ve been working on something. You want to hear it?”
“Okay,” Dave said. His stormy blue eyes lit with the challenge. “Go for it.”
I started playing through a song I’d started last week. I had most of the chorus down, but the verses weren’t coming together. Half of the lyrics were dumb stuff like “and then he gave me scrambled eggs,” just as placeholders. Like he always did, Dave jumped in, singing notes to fill empty spaces in the melody.
As I slid through the chorus, I leaned over the guitar. Dave was there to meet me. At first, he teased with the faintest touch, a feather-light caress. Then he brushed my hair back over my ear and claimed his kiss. It was sweet and playful. A flush rose to my cheeks, and I felt airy and light.
Dave knew me. He knew me really well, and his kiss lingered when he slowly drew back. Stroking the tender skin behind my ear, he pressed one more kiss to my lips before drawing back. He looked like a fairy-tale prince all over again.
When I cycled through the few lyrics I had, I let the last notes trail away. Dave still nodded his head in time. His eyes were half-closed, and his golden lashes fanned against his cheeks.
Reaching out, I drew my fingers across them gently. The party really had been a momentary lapse of reason, I decided.
“Kind of rocker girl, not like your usual stuff. It’s definitely going somewhere,” Dave said, pulling away and nodding toward my guitar. “Needs some work on the second verse, though. Scrambled eggs, really?”
He was only teasing. We always used placeholder lyrics. Sometimes they were so silly, they became inside jokes.
“Those are the secret lyrics. The real ones would blow. Your. Mind.”
Dave stroked his hand along the curve of my guitar. Lightly, he leaned in and teased suggestively, “I know another way you can blow my mind.”
We hadn’t gone there yet. Maybe somewhere medium close to there. On this couch, even. Clothes off, but only from the waist up. It wasn’t a sore point or anything, Dave was fine with waiting—which was good, because I wasn’t ready for more. But that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t occasionally hint toward something more.
With a kind smile that told him it wasn’t going to happen, I pointed out, “Rehearsal. We have a show at the Eden coming up.”
Like he was indulging me, Dave smeared a quick kiss on my lips and rolled to his feet. He never pushed too much, which I appreciated. But sometimes I couldn’t help but want him to want me enough to push for it. The view when he walked back to his workbench was nice. Dave had a lot of things going for him, including his tight, cute butt.
I loved Dave. I loved so many things about him. For example, every rehearsal, that morning included, he greeted me with a tall zebra mocha, one extra pump white chocolate. I’d ordered one on our first movie date; I used to love them. They were too sweet now, though I’d never told Dave that. If I had, I’m sure he’d produce a regular half-caf with cream instead, because that’s what I bought for myself now.
The trill of an incoming text startled me. Fishing my phone from my purse, I blinked in surprise. The blank avatar flashed on the screen. It was Will. I felt my pulse flutter. Instant heat engulfed me. All my edges sharpened, my teeth and my eyes, even the curve of my hips. Suddenly, I was a wild thing, just barely contained in my skin. I hadn’t gotten a hint of that while I was making out with Dave. It was like Will had traced that finger across my shoulders again. The phantom tingle of a cinnamon kiss rose to my lips, all before I’d even read his message.
In need of some wisdom. U have any?
I glanced up. Dave was oblivious, trimming off strings and lavishing his full attention on tuning the new-to-him guitar. We were supposed to be rehearsing, but he just couldn’t leave a half-finished guitar alone. Somewhat irrationally, I felt like he should realize that my attention had shifted elsewhere, that another guy was texting me. That somebody else wanted to be with me in a way he didn’t. He didn’t notice. He hadn’t even looked over. And before I knew it, I fired off a reply to Will.
Depends, I said. U have any root beer?
His reply came back almost instantly. Come see for urself.
Four words, and they realigned every nerve in my body. I felt fresh and limber, like I could run a race in record time. There was no reason to wait. The starting line was in front of me. At the end waited Will, with his dark looks and his sure hands and his pale eyes that looked right into me. That saw me.
Before I knew it, I’d tossed my phone in my purse and thrown the strap over my shoulder. “That’s Jane. She’s got a flat, I’m gonna go pick her up.”
Wire snips still in hand, Dave looked over. He never could resist the chance to play the hero. “Does she need help changing it?”
“No, we can change it. I just need to take her to get a spare. She thought she had a donut, but . . .”
I let the lie trail off. It gave him a chance to figure it out. To look at me and see the electricity racing along my skin. One final chance to get that I was walking out the door to see somebody else. This was his opportunity to ask me to stay.
After all, I was walking out in the middle of our Sunday studio time. Three straight years of Sundays, and we had missed exactly one.
He gave me a little wave. “All right, if you’re sure. Tell Jane I say hi.”
“I will,” I promised.
~
The school was dark, the grounds entirely abandoned.
All the spots were empty in the school parking lot. I parked next to the custodian’s dock, then hesitated. Will had told me to come to the side door on the loading dock. Until this morning, I didn’t know this part of the building existed. It was an adventure. A treasure hunt, with Will at the end of it.
Buzzed on forbidden adrenaline, I drove straight to school, and it wasn’t until I stopped to check out the surroundings that I began to feel anxious.
The back of the school was off-limits, the kind of spot where illicit and dangerous things might take place. They kept the Dumpsters back here. The incinerator, too, the stink of strange burning things hanging in the air. It was grubby and industrial. If I hadn’t been meeting Will, I would have thrown it in reverse and peeled out of there.
After I locked my car, I hurried to the side door. This felt like no-man’s-land. It was only the promise of seeing Will that kept me going. Knowing that he was waiting somewhere nearby set my senses alight.
The sensation grew as I knocked on the thick steel door to the side. Inside me, everything tilted on a seesaw. First, exhilaration. Then worry and guilt. But exhilaration won out, that night in the boathouse etched into me.
I shivered, feeling that first kiss again. Feeling everything again.
I was practically breathless when the door swung open. Will looked amazing. His distressed jeans clung to his legs jealously. In a nod to the season, he wore a cream-colored sweater that made his hair seem even darker. His eyes even bluer. He could have walked off a New England pier, all wind-tossed and casually sexy.
Reaching for me, he cast a furtive look into the parking lot. Instantly, I knew. He didn’t want to get caught here, either. It was a secret, forbidden place for him, too. Though there were heavy, industrial sounds behind him, I was thrilled when he pulled me inside. My body fell against his chest, with his possessive hands sweeping up my back.
“I’m not going to kiss you here,” he said.
My hands spanned his hips. I steadied myself against him, thumbs slipping into his belt loops. Tipping my head back to look up at him, I reminded, “You picked the place.”
“I didn’t pick the boiler room,” he said. “I
t’s just the fastest way to get where we’re going.”
Feeling bold and wild, I smiled. “Then let’s go.”
Still, he didn’t move. It was like he couldn’t help himself. He actually seemed to fight against an instinct that drew him closer to my lips. He leaned in, in spite of himself. The warm outline of his mouth nearly traced mine. There was nothing but a breath between us. Tugging his belt loops, I flattened myself against him.
Summoning more strength than I had, Will pulled himself away. “This isn’t actually the place.”
Lacing his fingers in mine, he backed down clanging metal steps. Machines two stories high pounded away, making so much noise it seemed to echo in my head.
Leading me through a tangle of pipes and steam, he reassured me with a squeeze of my hand. There was no point in saying anything, and no need to.
Then suddenly, we turned down a darkened hall. Will led me through two more steel doors, and the noise was trapped behind us. This new hall felt claustrophobically small after the giant machine room. It was dark, too. Light in the distance illuminated the white-plastered walls, but we stood mostly in shadow.
Will’s gaze dropped to my lips, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, a smokier tone, one that snaked over me lazily. “Any guesses?”
“About where we are?”
I laughed nervously. We weren’t in the boiler room anymore. There weren’t any machines here. There was just a long, narrow hallway. At the end of it, a bluish light flickered. It danced along the walls . . . like waves. I stopped, holding a finger up to shush him completely. I perked up my ears, really listening. But instead of picking up sound, I noticed a scent: chlorine.
I looked up at him. “Are we under the pool?”
Will traced a finger against my lower lip. “You really are wise. Come on. I want to show you something.”
Leading me toward the light, Will smiled when we turned the corner. There, instead of another long plastered wall, was a window. It had to be twenty feet long, maybe more. And from our vantage, we looked up, into the deep end of the pool.
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