Page 31 of Hold Still

She smiles and I swear the two clouds in the sky part.

I return her smile as memories of my uncle wash over me. “Tío Miguel was something special.” Tuckered out, Bans plops down by the bushes, so I join McKenna at the patio table.

“Was?” When I take my seat, she places her hand on top of mine. “What happened to him?”

“About six years ago, he had just finished playing a set with his band when he had a massive heart attack. He died instantly. He didn’t suffer.”

She squeezes my hand. “But you did.”

I nod, my eyes latched onto her hand on top of mine. “He was a good man. The best.”

“And he gave you your first guitar. He must have been so proud of all your success.”

I get lost in her expressive eyes. Something tells me she knows about losing someone close. “He came to quite a few of my concerts. I didn’t get really big until after he passed, but he supported everything I did. It was his advice that I missed when Platinum came to me with their offer for me alone. He would have known what to do.”

She pats my hand, then clasps them in her lap. In a low voice, she asks, “Would you get out his guitar? I’d love to hear you play the Puerto Rican ballad—the one he first taught you—with only it accompanying you. I bet it would be amazing.”

My chest constricts. Can I do it? Yes, I play the song every night at the Jade, but it’s with the full band, lights, the works. Here, it’ll just be me and the guitar. Exposed. Before I make up my mind, I’m already heading toward the music room. Guess my decision was made.

When I return to the patio, McKenna claps. “Oh, it’s such a pretty guitar. The little dings and scratches tell its story. And I love acoustic.”

I smile at her and run through some chords. Unconsciously, I play the first part of my warm up that I do at the Jade. When I realize what I’m doing, I slow down and strum the strings. Swallowing over the lump in my throat, I say, “This is what Tío Miguel taught me how to play.”

I start singing the Puerto Rican ballad, but have to close my eyes. I can’t look directly at her and sing the words about love of country and family. With my eyes closed and singing outside, I’m transported back to Puerto Rico—jamming with Tio Miguel under the stars. I finish the song with a traditional flourish, like he taught me to do. Not the way I do it in concert.

When I open my eyes, McKenna’s hand is over her mouth. “Ozzy. Oh my goodness! How gorgeous.”

Inclining my head, I say, “Gracías.”

Replacing her hands on her lap, her smile is genuine. “Tell me what the words mean.”

“It’s a story, really. About the hardships my people have endured but how they overcame them with love for each other. How Puerto Rico will always be a positive place so long as we have love. That’s our strength.” Perhaps true love isn’t such a farce? I shake my head. No—not for me.

“So beautiful.”

A melody suddenly pops into my head. One I’ve never heard before. Looking down at my guitar, I start strumming the notes, translating what’s in my head. When I stop, McKenna asks, “That’s pretty, too. Is it from another song Tío Miguel taught you?”

I lift my head up as if coming out of a daze. “What?”

“Did Tío Miguel teach you that song, too?”

I shake my head. “No. He didn’t. I, ah, it just came to me.”

Her mouth drops open. I don’t have time to process her reaction as more of the music starts to flow. As I explore the notes, she rushes into the house. I ignore her quirky behavior and continue to play. When I’ve finished, she takes her seat again, a sheaf of paper in her hand.

“Here. I found this in your living room.” She hands me blank music sheets and a pencil. I’ve left piles of these sheets all over the house in frustration, when nothing was coming to me.

Without a word, I start scribbling down the music. She watches me as I play on the guitar and then commit the music to paper. When I finish with what I’ve created so far, I play the unfinished song. I like it. A lot.

“Awesome!” She does a little jig, throwing in “Whoop! Whoop!” for good measure.

Her excitement is contagious. I place the guitar on the table and hug her around the waist for the second time today. She grabs my shoulders and I look directly into her eyes. She says, “You did it!”

“I did.” Before I can stop myself, my lips meet hers for a scorching kiss. One she returns.

The words I sang in the Puerto Rican ballad replay in my head.Love. My eyes open and my mouth disengages. What the fuck am I thinking? I lower her to the floor, still man enough to enjoy the feeling of her soft body pressed against mine.

She steps back, running her hand through her purple hair. “Congrats, Ozzy. I mean it.”

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