Page 29 of Torch Songs

Abruptly Tad was hit by the sadness of that. Guthrie was good. Everything Tad knew about music told him Guthrie was anamazingperformer. But paying your bills in the arts was never a sure thing. The kids with the education, with the contacts, they were going to make it. The honky-tonk bar guitarist, he was going to live for each performance and eat somewhere else.

As the band finished setting up and Guthrie swaggered up to the stage for sound checks before the crowd started, Tad thought achingly of how much of his heart Guthrie seemed to pour into each performance.

All of it.

And how much music seemed to be giving back.

The answer was “Not enough to live on.”

Did Guthrie have enough room in his heart for Tad with all that music in there?

As Guthrie signaled for them to start keying up their first number, Tad heard the wild, plaintive tones of Guthrie’s voice,the voice and the soul that had captivated him from the first, and brother, did he hope so.

Tad watched their first set thirstily, living for every note. When their penultimate tune came up, their torch song, Guthrie spoke into the mic.

“Now usually we do ‘Long Long Time’ for you all, but I thought we’d change it up. Don’t worry—if you hate this song, we’ll go back.”

There were some disappointed “Aww” noises, but then Owen started on the keyboard with a familiar riff, and Tad’s heart stuttered in his chest.

As the beginning notes of the old Journey tune started, he had to fight not to close his eyes. The music was sweet—heart-wrenchingly sweet—but the look on Guthrie’s face as he closed his eyes and sang of faithful love while living a musician’s life? Tad could see everything written there: The struggle to balance music and love, the hardships of a certain kind of life, and finally, the promise. The promise to stand by a lover in spite of all the pain and all the obstacles that the world could put in the way. Faithfully.

The last notes of the song died away, and there was a moment of absolutely awed hush in the bar before the crowd erupted, the cheering so long, so hard, that “Devil Went Down to Georgia” didn’t see the light of day until the second set.

“SHOWER…,” GUTHRIEbegged as Tad pulled up to his apartment complex around ten that night. “And then I’ll make you dinner.”

Guthrie had begged off dinner, saying his hand ached and he was still a little tired from the day before. Roberta and the others had nodded and expressed their sympathy, but Tad had seen the young violinist catch Guthrie’s eyes as they were leaving and mouth, “Sure!” with a roll of the eyes.

Yeah, Guthrie may have been able to pull off the “still tired” thing, but Tad was foolingnobody.

He’d had a simmering ache in his nether parts from the first moment Guthrie had stepped onto the stage.

He was so beautiful. Not when detailed like a laundry list; his nose was a bit Roman, his jaw a bit angular. Tad suspected those things helped his voice resonate. But as a whole, when he was pouring his heart into a song—or sitting at the table with his friends, listening to their banter—his face was so appealing. So… beautiful. It was Tad’s only word. He wasn’t a poet. He just knew something about Guthrie Woodson yanked so hard at his heart, he’d be stupid to resist it. If he were being pulled off a cliff, it was better to fall and land hard than to teeter on the edge, afraid of pain.

“I’ll fix dinner,” Tad told him. “What’d you have in mind?”

Guthrie gave him a grateful smile. “Burger bar. Uhm, the patties are already cooked. Heat them on the skillet, add cheese if you want some, heat the tater tots in the oven, and nuke the grilled onions and mushrooms. Set out the fixins and, you know.” He gave a proud smile. “Burger bar!”

Tad gaped at him, delighted, and Guthrie disappeared, probably to take the gauze bandage off his hand and wash up.

Sure enough, when Tad checked the fridge, he saw all the ingredients, and as he began to assemble and heat everything, it occurred to him how much work Guthrie had done for this. He… he’d prepared for this. He’d hoped.

Tad reached to the top of the fridge and found fresh buns, the artisan kind, and his heart gave a little ping. He’d orderedgroceriesfor this.

This wasn’t a one-night-stand kind of thing. This was a beginning. And quite a nice one, he concluded as he warmed the mushrooms and onions.

He threw the cheese slices on the burgers after he flipped them, and Guthrie emerged from the shower right as he pulled them off and put them on their own plate.

“This is clever,” Tad said, smiling at him. Guthrie’s wet hair had been combed back from his face, and he looked young and vulnerable. Also his ears stuck out, ever so slightly, which Tad found sort of endearing.

Guthrie gave him a shining smile. “I… see, when I was a kid, Uncle Jock used to nuke potatoes and then go through the fridge. Everything was fair game—leftovers, lunchmeat. We’d put anything on that potato, and as long as there was cheese to go on top, it was a good thing. I… I mean, I’m a grown-up now, but I do like a refrigerator puzzle, like Uncle Jock used to call it. Tonight’s burger toppings can be tomorrow’s salad, right?”

“Right,” Tad said happily, and then he sighed. “Although I need to be gone by nine. I report to work after lunch.”

“I’m out of here at eight,” Guthrie said regretfully. “You don’t have to leave when I do—maybe we can wake up and have coffee together.” Then as Tad pulled the tater tots out of the oven, he began to assemble two burgers, each one on a plate. “Ketchup? Mustard?”

“Yes to both,” Tad said. “And all the veggies. And dill pickles.”

“That’s my boy,” Guthrie approved. “Onions and mushrooms?”

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