Page 8 of Torch Songs

And with that he settled into an old Linda Ronstadt song, and proceeded to break Tad’s heart into a million pieces.

Gonna Hurt Me

GUTHRIE BOTHloved and hated “Long Long Time.”

He loved it because it was beautiful—Linda Ronstadt had the right of it over fifty years ago, and he’d always thought it was one of the most beautiful songs in the world. He loved it because it was one of the first songs he’d learned on the guitar, and when it was dropped an octave, he could sing it passably with his father’s C&W band since he was maybe fifteen. Singing this song as he’d learned the fretwork had made him feel powerful, because he could make people cry.

This song made people cry.

Which was why he hated it. Because it had madehimcry, nearly five years earlier when his heartbreak over Seth had really been gaining traction in his soul.

Three years ago, right before Seth went to Italy, Seth had allowed himself to go out on a “goodbye” date with Guthrie, because Guthrie had wanted to give Seth something beautiful to remember him by as he went off into the world and made gorgeous music. Guthrie had done the unthinkable then—a thing for which Kelly had still forgiven him—and had begged for a kiss to set himself free.

Seth had given him a kiss—a perfect kiss—and had said goodbye regretfully. It had worked, to some extent, because Guthrie had been able to set his heart to rest. It hadn’t been that Guthrie wasn’t good enough for such an exquisite musician, and such a truly good young man, to love. It was simply that Seth was already in love.

At least that’s what he’d told himself then. He’d needed to believe it.

A human thing. If Guthrie could overcome his own broken heart, he could love again.

He’d tried. He’d had two relationships since then, but the problem had been in that kiss. He’d kissed someone he loved—loved—with all his heart, and whether Seth returned that love or not, Guthrie knew now what it felt like to love somebody so much that it didn’t matter if they loved you back. It only mattered that they were happy.

It was a difficult, almost impossible, thing to do, but now that Guthrie had done it, he couldn’t make himself settle for anything less.

Even four months after the wedding, he was still holding desperately on to that hope.

He refused to forget the way they’d gazed at each other. The way they’d touched. Even the way Seth held the two children, like they were his own, like they were precious.

Guthrie knew what love was now. It wasn’t his father’s “Come back when you’re normal” kind of love. It was Seth’s father’s “Come back whenever you can. I will always love you” kind of love.

With the wedding still fresh in his mind, he could hold out for that—but Kelly’s words kept haunting him. To open his heart and see if someone could bring him the sunshine.

Too busy. Music. School. Work. Who needed to fall in love, right?

Until he played this fuckin’ song. And the band loved it. The bass and lead guitar players used to be Guthrie’s dad and Uncle Jock, but after Guthrie had come out, they’d gone off on their own to play the old bigot’s home or whatever, and two of Roberta’s friends from the music conservatory joined him. Owen and Neil were good guys, straight as arrows, decently talented, and the four of them made good music together.

And the other three loved this fucking song. Roberta wasn’t nearly as talented as Seth was, unless she was backing Guthrie up playing “Long Long Time,” and Guthrie wished he could hate her for that, but she still had his back. Even if she was getting pushier and pushier about his private life.

Tonight, with Kelly’s latest email burning in his phone, one of the chatty ones that he forwarded to his and Seth’s friends because he knew Seth wasn’t great with communication, the song seemed to treble from his throat with extra fullness. Guthrie could swear he heard somebody sobbing in the back of Washoe House bar and grill when he was done, and for the briefest second, Guthrie wanted to join him.

Then the crowd started calling for their absolute finale, “The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” which theyhadto play as a country western band with a fiddler, right? Guthrie swung back to his drum set, and the spiderweb of love and grief was broken, only the tatters of melancholy floating about the darkened room to brush their skin after their last bow.

“Good job tonight,” Sarah, the bartender, told them, handing them the tip jar she’d passed around afterward. “Stay for a drink? Please?” She gave an exaggerated sniffle. “You guys make Sunday nights bearable here, and I’d love to serve you a meal and a beer, right?”

“Got any prime rib left?” Owen asked hopefully, and Sarah grinned.

“Saved you all some. How about you, Guthrie? You good for it?”

Guthrie nodded, thinking the food was almost as good as the money. Maybe better, because eating with the band was always fun.

“Maybe you’ll even talk tonight,” Roberta said softly. After being graceful and balletic on stage, she was falling back into her coltishness on the ground with the mortals. Guthrie appreciatedthe difference; he knew that onstage he had a confidence, a presence, that deserted him on the ground too, and it was good to work with people who didn’t sit in the sun’s golden glow without trying. As much as he’d loved Seth, the younger man had made him supremely conscious of how much Guthrie wasnot.

“I don’t know, darlin’,” he’d said to Roberta with a wink. “Talking’s going too far, you think?”

She laughed a little, and they gathered their instruments and set them in the storeroom in the back before going to sit at the bar table Sarah had cleared for them.

As they crowded back there, Guthrie noticed a man—midsized, stocky but very fit, with hair that was probably auburn in the sun but looked dark blond in the darkened bar—nursing a beer at the end of the counter. Guthrie had seen him during the Linda Ronstadt song, his wide green eyes fastened hungrily on Guthrie’s face as Guthrie had poured everything he’d learned about love and loss in his twenty-eight years on the planet into the rough and abraded hearts who’d gathered that night to drink.

As Guthrie walked by, their eyes met, and Guthrie saw a spark of something—hope, hunger, something—in those eyes, and he was so surprised he paused, lips parting as he searched for something to say.

---