Page 83 of Shy Girls Can't Date Celebrities
“Nuh-uh.” He doesn’t budge when I tug on him. “I can’t.”
“You don’t have to play it, but maybe it’ll feel good to have it in your hands.” I gesture at the bed. “Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll bring it to you?”
He runs a hand through his hair, apprehension paling his expression.
I frown, touching the sides of his face. “Are you worried you can’t play it?”
Red lines frame his eyes, and he nods.
“Savanna’s had you building up your hand muscles. You might need a refresher on the chords. But, after some time, I’m sure it’ll allcome back to you.”
“Joze,” it comes out broken. “Guitar is the one thing I love. Apparently, it got me famous. Who am I without it?”
“You’re the same person. The same sweet and talented Wyatt Hayes.”
He looks down at his hand, flexing it as if there’s an elastic band around his fingers. “The talent might be gone.”
“This morning you said, you were taking your time, remembering the sequences with the playing cards. Give yourself some credit. You’re already improving.”
He sucks in a breath and blows it out slowly. He edges toward the bed and gingerly sits down. “Okay. I’ll try.”
I mask my massive enthusiasm, forcing myself to move slowly toward the guitar. Tingles shoot up my fingers as I lift the iconic acoustic guitar. I can’t even count the many live performance recordings I’ve watched.
I hand it over to him. “Ready?”
He takes it, resting the body against his lap, and holding the neck against his open palm.
I kneel on the carpet in front of him, keeping my focus on the guitar. “Does it feel okay?”
“Holding it isn’t the scary part,” he half-jokes.
“You don’t have to play it. This can be enough for today.”
His index finger brushes against the strings, light enough not to make a sound. His eyes move across the neck, and then around our immediate area.
“Is there a pick anywhere?”
My heart hammers with anticipation. I jump to my feet, searching the area around the guitar stand. Hiding my excitement has totally gone out the window.
On the carpet, I spy a black and purple guitar pick. “Got it!”
Wyatt mumbles a laugh as I take it to him.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “I’m trying not to get overexcited.”
“It’s cool, Joze. I’m fr-freaking out about playing too.”
I wince. “Your stutter’s coming back. Are you too nervous to do this?”
He shrugs, the pick resting between his lips as he correctly positions the guitar against him. He plucks the pick from his mouth, and says, “I think I’ll stay stressed out if I don’t play. You know, wondering if I could or not.”
“Well, take it easy. Like, don’t be hard on yourself.”
His left hand moves along the frets, his fingers trembling as they fumble against the strings. He frowns and shakes his head, shifting his gaze to the sound hole and rubbing his thumb and index finger against the pick. Tentatively, he strums downward once.
He puffs a laugh. “Way out of tune.”
My heart expands and a massive grin stretches my cheeks. “You heard that.See. Told ya it would come back to you.”
