Page 80 of Torch Songs

Guthrie felt his mouth twitch even as his eyes drifted shut. “Okay,” he mumbled, sleep overtaking him. “Okay.”

He felt the bed shift as Tad stood up, and then to his surprise, felt the bed shift behind him. Tad had crawled back in,because on that side of the bed he could lie down facing Guthrie, one hand gingerly spanning his tender midriff.

Guthrie fell asleep feeling safe, and that had to count for something.

TWO MOREweeks. Two mellow, healing, sweet weeks during which taking walks with Tad or trips to the craft store with April, or getting a bonded pair of kittens from the SPCA were the highlights of his day.

He got to name one of the kittens—Lennon, because John Lennon, natch—and April called the other one McCartney, or Mac, or Arty, or Scooter-Pie, or Jesus-You-Fucking-Asshole, because McCartney had never met a drape or a blanket or a couch or a pair of jeans he didn’t want to climb. After the end of the first week, they were Mac the Knife and Lenny Bruce, and somehow nobody in the apartment noticed the transition.

And in between those things, when Tad was on his computer trying to catch up with paperwork from home and April was deep in her audiobooks or music while she was crocheting, Guthrie would practice on his drum pads or soundlessly on his guitar, and more and more as he practiced, he found himself “twiddling.” He’d completely orchestrated three whole songs, saving them on his computer, and he had lyrics written for four more. He’d learned music notation from Seth at first, and then had gone to school for music theory classes, and now he wrote the songs down and practiced the guitar and the percussion and even the instrumental parts on a keyboard, like Seth would. Like a professional. Like somebody who knew what the fuck they were doing.

After two weeks of healing, he was sitting on a dinette stool in the living room, guitar in his arms, pretending to strum and staring thoughtfully into thin air when Tad glanced up from his computer and took off his noise-dampening headphones.

“What?” he asked.

Guthrie gave him a quick grin, almost a death rictus he was so nervous. “It’s noth—”

“Guthrie, you’ve been sitting there looking constipated for fifteen minutes. Just, you know, play it. It’s fine. I’m listening.”

Guthrie scowled at him, and without knowing he was going to do it, his fingers started working, and the guitar was in tune, and it played so sweetly Guthrie wanted to bless it with holy water for following him through the wars.

Then he started singing.

Driving through midnight

Black ribbon of road

Stretching before me, a future not told

And all I have in me is an old love song

I sang under stars so bright

That song hurts me tonight.

My heart’s like thunder ’cause

What if you don’t

Want to see me like I want you

But two hundred miles sit between us

And there’s nothing for me to do

But drive through midnight

Black ribbon of road

Singing before my eyes

Driving through midnight

I pray to those bright stars

Nothing you said was lies

Please want me like I want you

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