Page 41 of Ambiguous
Sam frowns. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”
I shrug and set my instrument back down, open up the little fridge, and get a drink. “Funny how those childhood fears stick with you. They can be the starts of songs, though.”
“Do you want to play me what you have?” he asks.
I nod, gulping, then pick up my guitar again and strum a chord. “I have a bunch roughed out, but I’m okay with playing you three of them. This first one is about the lift.”
Sam closes his eyes, and I love that he does that, because it means he’s listening—and he’s also giving me space.
Taking a deep breath, I play the song about the walls closing in on me and a kind voice and blue eyes making the panic go away. When I get to the part about a man in a bow tie, I risk a look at Sam, who grins after he hears the lyrics.
When I’m done, he opens his eyes and claps. “I got chills. Look at my arms.” He rolls up his sleeve, and I see this sexy, toned, veiny arm with goose bumps up and down it. “I love how you took something that happened to you and turned it into art.”
“Thanks.” My voice is husky. We look at each other, and after a moment I say, “Want to hear another?”
“Of course,” he says quietly.
I play him the song about selling your soul to the machine and being scared you’re turning into an automaton. This time he opens his eyes and watches me. I think he knows exactly what I’m talking about.
And while it’s hard to feel his blue eyes on me, I make it through the song.
“Yeah,” he says. “You’re being vulnerable. That takes a lot of courage.”
I give him this goofy grin. “Now I’m thinking about writing a song about that feeling when you’re being vulnerable and showing someone the real you.”
“Do it,” he orders. “I’ll wait.”
So I pull out a scrap of paper and scribble down some lyrics.
Finally, I decide to get brave. “I have one more that’s okay to play.”
“Yes, please.”
Haltingly, with a few messed-up lyrics and chords, I play a song about three dots that appear and disappear as I’m wondering what he’s thinking. Wondering if he’s ever going to say what I want him to say.
Sam watches me in wonder. If I share this song with the world, the pronoun will provoke questions I’ve spent years not answering.
The pronoun might scare away fans. The pronoun might bring me more hate than I already receive. Those possibilities make me anxious.
But I want to be strong enough to record it. I’ve been thinking about what Sam said about responsibility. And I might be ready to take a small step toward being a leader.
The song isn’t complete yet, but when I get to the end of what I’ve written, Sam clears his throat, and then he’s on his feet, running his hands through his hair. “That’s. I’m. Julian. How do you come up with things like that?”
I shrug. He’s so agitated I want to take him in my arms and kiss him.
Maybe I will. I set my guitar down and stand still, looking at him, trying to decide. But before I make a move, the gate buzzer rings. I answer the intercom.
“Dinner’s here,” I say. “Come with me?”
He nods and follows me up the stairs.
* * *
The arrival of the meal changes the mood, breaking the tension that had been building between us. The weather is lovely, so we set up outside on the balcony, the crashing waves and cries of gulls our background noise.
I open a bottle of white wine. “Still not drinking?”
He shakes his head. “I think I’m off duty now.”
