Page 22 of Crash & Burn

Guitar lessons were a bad idea. I don’t know what I was thinking when I asked Eddie to teach me, and Idefinitelywasn’t thinking when I grabbed Nico’s old guitar from under my bed to use for the lessons.

If Iwasthinking, I would have reminded myself that the last time I saw that guitar out of its case was when Nico was playing me the song he wrote the night before he died.

I got overly confident with how well it went bringing out my camera, thinking that bringing out the guitar and learning how to play would be the same, thinking that Eddie teaching me how to playNico’sguitar would work.

I could barely even hold on to the guitar, let alone play it. I must have looked ridiculous trying to mimic Eddie’s seamless movements, trying to stay calm when all I wanted to do was scream in frustration with every strum.

I used to love music and appreciate every instrument for the way it contributed to the overall sound of a song. I loved connecting to the lyrics and finding the different ways they spoke to me.

But I have always been alistener.

Mateo was the one who wanted to make music, not me.

Nico too, he loved making music.

I rinse off the face mask I put on after I got home, but a Saturday night with white wine and a purifying face mask is not enough self-care to make me feel any better about how today went.

After the guitar lesson, I tried to convince myself that I could do this because I was doing the guitar lessons for Nico. That I was honoring his memory by trying to figure out his song. I tried to forget the complexities of how I used to love music, and how it now makes me uncomfortable. I wanted to ignore that I never had an interest in playing guitar, but it would help me find the song.

But now that I’m thinking about it, it felt like a forced and cheapened way to feel close to Nico. I was tricking myself into doing something he loved because I thought it might help me deal with the loss of him.

This will be fun to unpack in therapy later this week.

In the end, the whole thing just made me look like an idiot in front of Eddie who had to waste an hour of his time teaching me how to do something I have no interest in learning how to do.

Eddie.

And what am I supposed to think regarding the feeling of Eddie’s fingertips grazing my arm? There was a moment I thought he felt the same spark I did—the same magnetic pull between us. But it must have been this stupid, unreciprocated interest that is forming for him because he pulled his hand away as if touching me physically burned him.

Guitar lessons were a stupid idea.

I’ll have to figure out the song another way.

I take off my robe before climbing into bed, not caring that it’s still light out. Practice ended early because the guys wanted to celebrate at Lenny’s for running through the setlist twice without any mistakes, but I asked Mateo to drop me off at home.

I didn’t have the energy to put on a face that everything is fine.

Because everythingisn’tfine.

Only a week left of band practices and then six shows over the course of three months to go to.

Then I’ll be done being Cross My Heart’s photographer.

And I’ll never have to be around Eddie again.

Eddie, who was just trying to be nice to his best friend’s little sister. The shy little sister with no confidence who causes issues and wastes everyone’s time, and who can’t even control the thoughts in her own fucking brain.

***

“I think I finally got it,” Nico says. It’s the summer before my sophomore year of college and we’re sitting across from each other on his bed, his guitar is in his lap. I’ve been listening to him play the song he’s been working on over and over again.

I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of it.

I find myself humming it whenever I’m not with him.

“Okay, I’m ready,” I say with a smile. He always says he thinks he has it, but then he plays it and stops midway through, or even almost to the end, and says it’s missing something.

Maybethiswill be the time.

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