Page 9 of Code Word
“Guess I better go make myself purdy. Bring your shit over when you’re done.”
He nodded, still not looking at me. “’Kay.”
I left him to it, walking back across the cold ground, wondering what the hell had just happened.
Luke dumpedhis duffle bag on the couch and slid the tray of clean mugs on the small kitchen counter just as the coffee machine beeped.
“Perfect timing,” I said. “Want another brew?”
“Ah, sure,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
He was nervous or uncertain; neither was good. Not at any time, but especially around me. I kinda thought he was about to say something, tell me what was on his mind, but nope.
He just took his coffee, and I waited... and waited. But still not looking at me, he sipped his coffee, and the silencestretched out. He put his half-full mug in the sink and sighed, then nodded to the door. “Should we go set up the barn?”
I looked at my mostly full mug, and now feeling as uneasy as him, I set it down. “Sure.”
Actually, a day in the barn, jamming out, maybe recording something was what he needed.
Maybe it was what I needed too.
Thebarn, as we called it, was a studio. Strictly speaking, it was still a freaking barn, but there was a sound booth and a production room, though it was mostly left open, very much still a barn. There were couches and rugs, mostly to help with acoustics, but the rustic wood and age of the place added to the feel of it.
It didn’t feel like work. It felt like fun.
What music used to feel like for us, when we’d hang out and jam and joke around, dreaming of hitting the big time.
“Do you miss it?” I asked as I pulled a plastic cover off the old couch.
Luke was bringing the keyboard out from the production room. It was where we kept most of the instruments that stayed here. The room was lockable and not susceptible to weather. “Miss what?”
Atrous.
When relationships were easier.
“Music,” I replied. “When it used to be fun. When it was all we ever wanted to do.”
He put the keyboard on the coffee table, which was two upended wooden crates, and frowned as he unraveled the power cord. “Sometimes.”
“I saw you had your guitar and keyboard out in your room again,” I mentioned. I didn’t mean that to sound accusatory or as if he was hiding anything from me, so I aimed for upbeat. “Come up with anything good? Another double-platinum song?”
He snorted. “It was triple platinum, so fuck you.”
That made me laugh, but then he was quiet again for a while, and I waited to see if he’d offer me anything freely or if I was going to have to pry this out of him.
It took a few long minutes.
“I’ve just been putting a few things together,” he said when he brought out the guitar.
It was a cheap old acoustic... No, wait, it washisold acoustic. I took it off him, looking it over. “God, this thing’s seen some years. Where were you hiding it?”
He half smiled, half shrugged. “Had it at home. It’s been here for over a year. I brought it up when Maddox and Roscoe got married.”
I couldn’t believe it. I put my foot on the coffee table, held the guitar, and strummed the strings. It sounded just the same, like our childhood. “God, remember when you got this?” I asked. “Your fifteenth birthday, remember? It was the bee’s fucking knees.”
His eyes met mine, soft and happy. “Yeah. I remember.” Then he shook his head and cleared his throat. “Surprised you remember it though.”
“What?” I asked, strumming out a few chords. “Of course I do. I was gonna say you must have four other acoustics worth ten times this, but this?” I strummed again. “This is perfect. I can’t believe you still have it.”
